Classic Poem

I.

O NCE there was a Cymrie nation:
Few its men, but high its station —
Freedom is the soul's 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 malice
Blights our beauteous valleys;
Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his the 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 the Saxon drones for ever.
" C YMRIC Rule AND C YMRIC RuleRS " —
Pass along the word!

II.

We should blush at Arthur's glory —
Never sing the deeds of Rory —
Caratach's renowned 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 soul within you,
Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth iron
For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops environ —
" C YMRIC Rule AND C YMRIC RuleRS " —
Pass along the word!