y Glynn,
My fairy prince for ever fled,
Leaving life's Mabinogion dead.

A rosy apple, pebbles white,
And dicky-birds were his delight,
A childish bow with coloured cord,
A little brittle wooden sword.
From bagpipes or the bogy-man
Into his mother's arms he ran,
There coaxed from her a ball to throw
With his daddy to and fro.

His own sweet songs he'd then be singing,
Then for a nut with a shout be springing;
Holding my hand he'd trot about with me,
Coax me now, and now fall out with me,
Now, make it up again, lip to lip,
For a dainty die or a curling chip.
Would God my lovely little lad
A second life, like Lazarus, had!
St. Beuno raised from death at once
St. Winifred and her six nuns;
Would to God the Saint could win
An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!

Ah, Mary! my merry little knave,
Coffined and covered in the grave!
To think of him beneath the slab
Deals my lone heart a double stab.

Bright dream beyond my own life's shore,
Proud purpose of my future's store,
My hope, my comfort from annoy,
My jewel and my glowing joy,
My nest of shade from out the sun,
My lark, my soaring, singing one,
My golden shaft of faithful love
Shot at the radiant round above,
My intercessor with Heaven's King,
My boyhood's second blossoming,
My little, laughing, loving John,
For you I'm sunk in shadow wan!

Good-bye, good-bye, for evermore
My little lively squirrel's store,
The happy bouncing of his ball,
His carol up and down the hall!
Adieu, my little dancing one,
Adieu, adieu, my son, my son!

THE NOBLE'S GRAVE

(After Sion Cent, 1386-1420, priest of Kentchurch, in Hereford)

Premier Peer but yesterday,
Lone within the tomb to-morrow;
For his silken garments gay,
Grave-clothes in a gravelled furrow.

No love-making, homage none;
From his mines no golden mintage;
No rich traffic in the sun;
No more purple-purling vintage.

No more usherings out of Hall
By obsequious attendant;
No more part, however small,
In the Pageant's pomp resplendent!

Just a perch of churchyard clay
All the soil he now possesses;
Heavily its burthen grey
On his pulseless bosom presses.

THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION

(After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet)

Lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression!
Weak-willed and too filled with Earth'