The breeze hath left the Berwyn hills,
The dew was on the flower;
The bee had sought his honey comb,
The bird was in his bower;
When swifter than the mountain gale,
On Alban steed I flew
My bee I sought your honey home;
My bird I flew to you.
My bee I sought your honey home;
My bird I flew to you.

My peerless steed is white with foam
And droops his arched neck;
The flood, the mountain, and the glen,
He crossed without a cheek.
Oh! listen while my harp I strike,
And rouse its sweetest tone;
And hear the language of a heart,
Which beats for you alone.

The breeze hath left the Berwyn hills,
The dew is on the flower;
And I must hie to fairy land,
Ere chimes the midnight hour.
Arise bright star of beauty rise,
And when from you I roam,
Send forth the lustre of your eyes
To light me to my home.

[130] BATTLE SONG. (Air—“The Swan’s Note.”) Arranged by W. Forde. Bold and expressive.

March to the battle,
Drums loudly rattle,
Trumpets are braying,
Proud steeds are neighing,
And armour clashing,
While torrents dashing,
Loudly thunder down below.

Bright helms are glancing,
Gay plumes are dancing,
Brave hearts are beating,
For the death meeting;
And Freedom rallies,
Sons of the valleys,
Forward then and face the foe!
Scion said Father round us come,
Gather bare the sword and strike the blow.

From rock and heather,
Spring up together,
Fierce as the eagle,
Staunch as the beagle;
From the heart’s fountain,
Sons of the mountain,
Shout the war cry of Glyndoor!
England advances,
Proud of her lances,
Gallant and sightly,
Noble and knightly,
Wales frowns before her,
Death hovers o’er her—
Forward to the battle moor;—
Fate hath decreed ’em,
Victims to freedom;
And banners flying,
O’er dead and dying—
Wave for Cambria’s great Glyndoor!

[143] JENNY DAVIES. (Air—“Llwyn-onn.”) Arranged by W. Forde. Allegretto.

I’m call’d Jenny Davies,
The fairest of Ladies,
And dwell on the bank-side where primroses grow;
My cheeks are like cherries,
My lips sweet strawberries,
My eyes are as black as the wild mountain sloe.
My heart’s warm and tender,
My waist small and slender,
I bound o’er the hills like the young mountain row;
I’m blithesome and witty,
Then sure ’tis a pity,
That I for a husband should sight forth heigh ho!

With sighing and suing,
Young Arthur came wooing,
But he was too shy for a buxom young lass,
Then came handsome Harry,
Who press’d me to marry,
But he was too fond of his toilet and glass;
Then followed brave Rowland,
Who lives in the low-land,
But he was too rough for a delicate maid;
Sure, sure ’tis a pity,
A young girl so pretty,
Should sigh for a husband and pine in the shade.

Young Carlie abused me,
And sadly misused me,
He vow’d to be mine and ran off with Miss Jones;
And last came a Quaker,
A grave undertaker,
Who promis’d he’d soon make me bone of his bones;
But he late and early
Is peevish and surly,
No longer I smile, and to dance I’m afraid;
I can’t bear to choose him,
And yet if I lose him,
Perhaps, (Oh, my stars!) I shall die an old maid.

[176] MOUNTAIN MARY. (Air—“Cader Idris.”) Arranged by W. Forde. Allegretto.

The sun had gone down, and the monarch of mountains
Had robed his dark form in a mantle of cloud;
The primroses slept by the summer dried fountains,
And beauty’s own river seem’d dreaming aloud.
In the dale of the Hazel all nature seem’d weeping,
And mild was the moon-light that silver’d the grove;
But wakeful was morn flew my own mountain Mary,
To gladden my heart with the breathings of love.