Cymru am Byth Dr Dodiddily and the Dee Dot's
CYMRU - WALES
A SONG OF THE WELSH
There is a race in an island place that rose in the morning gleam And made its sword of an olden song, its armour out of a dream; And its warriors died in a stubborn pride that recked no price of tears, But followed the call of the singing sword that rang athwart the years.
And the eyes of a nation's hope grew bright, like roses out of the dawn, But ever the dark of the shadows came and the twilight fell forlorn, For the feet of the iron legions pressed where Menai sobbed and sighed, And the Saxons came in a roaring flame; and Arthur swooned and died.
Then rose a host from out the foam, and a tyrant out of the sea, And harried the race of the singing sword with the hounds of Normandy, Till the quarry turned, their arrows burned, their lances thrust and leapt At Evesham grey in the bitter day when the soul of Montfort slept.
And the men of the sword went far abroad when France was a blaze of spears, And the longbow's dirge was a crimson surge at Crecy and Poitiers. But over a sunless road they trod when Glendower brake his shield, Till the song of the sword rang loud and clear in the crash of Bosworth field.
Then lo! afar from Corsica the ravening eagle sped, From the Midland sea to Muscovy where the trampled snows were red. And the song of the sword came calling wild, the Picton's henchmen flew From Badajos through Quatre Bras to the crown of Waterloo.
And now, through the plains that the nations spoil, the new flung legions came, Their path was a torrent of broken men, their feet were a scorching flame, But the men of the sword were linked with Gods and neither spell nor truce Could stem, the spate from the Marne's locked gate to the red, red wrath of Loos.
They followed the sword that gleamed and sang; they held,, they fought, they stood Where rivers of gloom poured black with doom through raging Mametz Wood; The held, they fought, they stood, they won; and the skies were molten fire As they crossed Death's bridge on Pilkem Ridge lest freedom should expire.
And out of the plains of the burning East in the noon-heat and the night They made their stand in the desert sand - and they won in hero-fight The City of God that crowns the world, and they looked on the Dolorous Way Where the star of Richard the Lion-heart had set and had burned away.
Their sword is made of an olden song, their armour out of a dream, They have seen the rills of a thousand hills the word of the lightening gleam. Their dream is the soul of a man unbound from birth to eternity, And the song of the sword is a sounding chant of the psalm of liberty.
And the land they love and the land they made and the place men know them by Is a land where a tree is a singing thing and the wind is a lullaby, Where the mists are white in the morning light as a maiden's bridal veil, In a home that is ever the harp of song and legend and fairy-tale. Arthur Glyn PRYS-JONES. A Welshman of Denbighshire
|