To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore,
Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won,
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.
Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those
Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose,
Their lot shall be lovely—renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d—
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,