Classic Poem

From the Welsh of Lewis Morris.

Though it has been my fate to see
Of gallant countries many a one;
Good ale, and those that drank it free,
And wine in streams that seemed to run;
The best of beer, the best of cheer,
Allotted are to Merion.

The swarthy ox will drag his chain,
At man's commandment that is done;
His furrow break through earth with pain,
Up hill and hillock toiling on;
Yet with more skill draw hearts at will
The maids of county Merion.

Merry the life, it must be owned,
Upon the hills of Merion;
Though chill and drear the prospect round,
Delight and joy are not unknown;
O who would e'er expect to hear
'Mid mountain bogs the cuckoo's tone?

O who display a mien full fair,
A wonder each to look upon?
And who in every household care
Defy compare below the sun?
And who make mad each sprightly lad?
The maids of county Merion.

O fair the salmon in the flood,
That over golden sands doth run;
And fair the thrush in his abode,
That spreads his wings in gladsome fun;
More beauteous look, if truth be spoke,
The maids of county Merion.

Dear to the little birdies wild
Their freedom in the forest lone;
Dear to the little sucking child
The nurse's breast it hangs upon;
Though long I wait, I ne'er can state
How dear to me is Merion.

Sweet in the house the Telyn's strings
In love and joy where kindred wone;
While each in turn a stanza sings,
No sordid themes e'er touched upon;
Full sweet in sound the hearth around
The maidens' song of Merion.

And though my body here it be
Travelling the countries up and down;
Tasting delights of land and sea,
True pleasure seems my heart to shun;
Alas! there's need home, home to speed —
My soul it is in Merion.