The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed,
Of Aberteivi's hardy breed,
Elate of spirit, low of flesh,
That sham'st thy kind of vallies fresh;
And three score miles and twelve a day
Hast sped, my gallant galloway.
Like a sea-boat, firm and tight,
Dancing on the ocean, light,
That the spirit of the wind
Actuates to heart and mind
Elastic, buoyant, proud, and gay,
Art thou, my mountain galloway.
Thou'st borne me, like a billow's sweep,
O'er mountains high and vallies deep,
Oft drank at lake and waterfall,
Pass'd sunless gulfs whose glooms appall,
And shudder'd oft at ocean's spray,
Where breakers roar'd, destruction lay.
And thou hast snuff'd sulphureous fumes
'Mid rural nature's charnel tombs;
Thou hast sped with eye unscar'd
Where Merthyr's fields of fire flar'd;
And thou wert dauntless on thy way,
My faithful mountain galloway.
There is a vale, 'tis far away,
But we must reach that vale to-day;
There is a mansion in that vale,
Its white walls well the eye regale!
And there's a hand more white they say,
Shall pat my gallant galloway.
And she is young, and she is fair,
The lovely one who sojourns there;
Oh, truly dear is she to me!
As thou art mine, she'll welcome thee:
Then off we go, at break of day,
On, on! my gallant galloway.