p, Goronwy Wyn!

Ah, too well I now remember,
Darling, when you slept,
How the children from your chamber
Jealously I kept.
Now how willingly to wake you
I would let them in,
If their merry noise could make you
Move, Goronwy Wyn!

Sleep, though mother is not near you,
In God's garden green!
Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you,
Lovely to be seen;
Six small primroses to show us
Summer-time is ours;
Though, alas! locked up below us,
Lies our flower of flowers.

Sleep! to mother's love what matters
Passing time or tide?
On my ear your footstep patters,
Still my babe you bide.
All the others moving, moving,
Still disturb my breast;
But the dead have done with roving,
You alone have rest.

Then, beneath the primrose petals,
Sleep, our heart's delight!
Darkness o'er us deeply settles;
We must say "Good night!"
Your new cradle needs no shaking
On its quiet floor.
Sleep, my child! till you are waking
In my arms once more.

THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD

(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading "New Bards")

Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush,
Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped;
Early on the mountain ranged his reapers,
Above his mattock late he bowed his head.

Love's celestial rapture once he tasted,
Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept.
Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall,
He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,

With the poor he shared his scanty earnings,
To the Lord his laden heart he breathed;
On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine,
And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.

Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings,
Yet more dearly loved her early lore,
Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings
The far, faint echoes of her ancient shore.

Yestereven he hung up his sickle,
Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er,
Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges,
To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.

THE QUEEN'S DREAM

(To a Welsh Air of the name)

From the starving City
She turned her couch to seek,
With pearls of tender pity
On her queenly cheek;
There in restless slumber
She dreamt that she was one
Of that most piteous number
By distress undone.
In among that sullen brood,
In homeless want she glided