Cymris Rule and Cymris Rulers

Once there was a Cymric nation;
Few its men and high its station –
Freedom is the souls creation,
Not the work of hands.
Coward hearts are self subduing;
Fetters last by slaves renewing –
Edward’s castles are in ruin
Still his empire stands.
Still the Saxon’s mailice
Blights our beauteous valleys
Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his laws we writhe in;
Worked like beasts that Saxon priests may riot in our tithing;
Saxon speech and Saxon teachers
Crush our Cymric tongue!
Tolls our traffic binding,
Rents our vitals grinding –
Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by one bold endeavour,
We could drive from out our hive these Saxon drones for ever
Pass along the word!

We should blush at Arthur’s glory –
Never sing the deeds of Rory –
Caratach’s renownd story
Deepens our disgrace.
By the bloody day of Banchor!
By a thousand years of rancour!
By the wrongs that in us canker!
Up! Ye Cymric race –
Think of Old Llewellyn –
Owen’s trumpets swelling;
Then send out a thunder shout, and every true man summon,
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plinlimmon,
“Saxon foes and Cymric brothers,
Arthur’s come again!”
Not his bone and sinew,
But his sould within you,
Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth iron,
For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops environ –
Pass along the word!

Air: The men of Harlech.