rustling leaves or brook that babbles by.

O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn’s first rays,
As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise,
And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing
Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King.

Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?
Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near!
God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales
The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales.

Go and Dig a Grave for me.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
   Like the clouds which come and go:
   And the weary finds no rest
   Save within the grave’s cold breast.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life’s dark and stormy ways
   Wandering with a mournful cry.
   Nought to clasp to my poor breast
   Save the staff whereon I rest.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   ’Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make
   Mournful music over me.
   Oh how pleasant ’twill be there
   For the weak, lone wanderer!

Go and dig a grave for me,
   For my journey’s nearly o’er;
Of life’s sweets I’ve freely drunk,
   Of its wormwood even more.
   Now to earth farewell I cry—
   Weak and faint, I long to die.

Go and dig a grave for me
   All life’s pleasures now are past;
Memories of the joys that were
   Darker shadows round me cast.
   Through death’s portals I will fly
   Far to peaceful worlds on high.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   Though my dwelling will be dark;
Needs not for this mortal frame
   Stone or sign its place to mark.
   There ’twill rest till stars shall fall
   At the last great trumpet call.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   Broken is my life’s frail thread;
Hasten, dig for me a grave,
   Draweth near the stranger dread.
   Low, ay low my head be bent,
   Till the heavens in twain are rent.

Go and dig a grave for me,
   I can stay no longer here,
Fare you well—my weak heart faints
   ’Neath the dark king’s fatal spear.
   I am ready for the grave—
   Christ receive me, help and save!

CEIRIOG.

John Ceiriog Hughes was born September 25, 1832.  He was for many years clerk in the Goods Station, London Road, Manchester, and was afterwards stationmaster on the Cambrian Line at Llanidloes, Towyn and Caersws successively.  He died at Caersws April 23rd, 1887.  He published during his lifetime ‘Oriau’r Hwyr,’ 1860; ‘Oriau’r Bore,’ 1862; ‘Cant o Ganeuon,’ 1863; ‘Y Bardd a’r Cerddor,’ 1863; ‘Oriau Ereill,’ 1868; and ‘Oriau’r Haf,’ 1870.  These are now published by Messrs. Hughes and Son, Wrexham, and ought to be in the possession of every Welshman, and of everyone desirous of learning Welsh.  A posthumous volume was published in 1888, ‘Oriau Olaf’ (Isaac Foulkes, Liverpool).

Songs of Wales.

Songs of Wales live in our ears
Through the swiftly passing years;
Moaning stormwinds as they blow
Murmur songs of long ago;
Voices of our dead ones dear
In our country’s airs we hear.

Whispering leaves in every grove
Murmur low the songs we love,
Sings the sea ’neath roaring gales
Snatches of the songs of Wales,
And to Kymric ears they sound
Through creation all around.

Myfanwy.

Myfanwy! thy fair face is seen
   In primrose and clover and rose,
In the sunshine, unsullied, serene,
   And the starlight’s untroubled repose.
When rises fair Venus on high,
   And shines ’twixt the heaven and the sea,
She is loved by the earth and the sky,
But thou art, Myfanwy, far brighter, far fairer to me,
   A thousand times fairer to me.

Would I were the breezes that blow
   Through the gardens and walks of thy home,
To murmur my love as I go
   And play with thy locks as I roam!
For changeful the breezes and bleak—
   Now balmy, now chilly they blow—
Yet they, love, are kissing thy cheek,
O heart of my heart, not changeful my love towards thee—
   Eternal my love towards thee!

Liberty.

See, see where royal Snowdon rears
Her hoary head above her peers
   To cry that Wales is free!
O hills which guard our liberties,
With outstretched arms to where you rise
In all your pride, I turn my eyes
   And echo, “Wales is free!”
O’er Giant Idris’ lofty seat,
O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon great
And hills which round them lower meet,
   Blow winds of liberty.
And like the breezes high and strong,
Which through the cloudwrack sweep along
Each dweller in this land of song
   Is free, is free, is free!

Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep
Over that wretch’s eyelids creep
   Who bears with wrong and shame.
Make him to feel thy spirit high,
And like a hero do or die,
And smite the arm of tyranny,
   And lay its haunts aflame.
Rather than peace which makes thee slave,
Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,
Lay foul oppression in its grave,
   No more the light to see.
Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze
And like the rolling thunder raise
Thy triumph song of joy and praise
   To God—that thou art free!

Climb the hillside.

Climb the hillside in the morning—
   When the radiant dawn is seen
Blushing shyly on the mountains
   Like a maiden of thirteen.
      “Quench the lamps of right,
      Fill the earth with light
         Wander o’er the lofty hills,
      Fringe each brightening fold
      Of the clouds with gold,”
         This the hest shy dawn fulfils.

Climb the hillside in the evening
   When the sun is sinking low—
You shall see day’s radiant monarch
   Falling bloodstained ’neath the foe.
      Dark and darker yet
      Grow day’s cerements wet,
         Creeps a haze across the main,
      Mounts the moon on high,
      Eve climbs up the sky,
         Lamps of God to light again.

Change and permanence.

Still the mountains with us stay,
   Still the winds across them roar,
Still is heard at dawn of day
   Song of shepherd as of yore.
Still the countless daisies grow
   On the hills, beneath the rocks,
But new swains, strange shepherds now
   On our mountains feed their flocks.

Cymru’s customs day by day
   Change with changing fortune’s wheel,
Friends of youth have passed away,
   Strangers now their places fill;
After many a stormy day
   Alun Mabon’s dead and gone,
But the old tongue still holds sway,
   And the dear old airs live on.

Homewards

From day to day, the golden sun
   His chariot ne’er restraineth,
From night to night the pale white moon
   Now waxeth and now waneth,
From hour to hour the bright stars turn
   In distances unending,
And all the mighty works of God,
   Are ever homeward tending.

The tiny streamlet on the hill
   Its wandering way pursueth,
The mighty river far below
   Adown the valley floweth,
The winds roam ever in the sky,
   The clouds are onward driving,
And towards some quiet shore—at home
   The raging sea is striving.