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'Twas hush'd: One flash, of sombre glare, With yellow ting'd the forests brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,

And horror chill'd each nerve and bone,

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call;- Her entrails rend: From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly Huntsman next arose,
may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,

With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,

And, "Hark away, and holla, ho!" With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind, he marks the throng, With bloody fangs, and eager cry;

In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end:
By day, they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour, ascend.
This is the horn, and hound, and horse,

That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,

When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear

For human pride, for human woe,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of, "Hella, bo!"




To horse! to horse! the standard flies,
The bugles sound the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of Battle's on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's tow'rs we come,
A band of brothers true ;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue.*

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown,
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn,
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

O! had they mark'd th' avenging call
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desp'rate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

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For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbrib'd, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our King, to fence our Law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader ride,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,-

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolv'd, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer, or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
Combin'd by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is, Laws and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!


[The Welch, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in rep-lling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARR, Earl of Stri guil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Baron of Chepstow, Lords Marchers of Monmouthshire Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Moumonth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignided by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

AIR-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan


RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil,

Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thund'ring heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!


From Chepstow's tow'rs, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.

They swore, their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.


And sooth they swore the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd-the trampled green
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been:
In every sable hoof-tramp stood

A Norman horseman's curdling blood!


Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forg'd the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.


[The Welch tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death-bed, de manded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted; requesting, that it might be performed at his funeral.]

Ara-Daffydz Gangwen.


DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.


In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade, Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade; For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.


Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side; But where is the harp shall give life to their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?


And Oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?


Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy lov'd scene, To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.


And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my lov'd Harp! my last treasure, farewell!

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