On Maelor Drefred’s field;
Loud the British clarions sound,
The Saxons gasping on the ground,
The bloody conflict yield.
“Fill, fill the Hirlas horn, my boy!
Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
That warble Owen’s praise,
Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,
And open wide his gates are flung
In Cambria’s peaceful days.
“This hour we dedicate to joy;
Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
That shineth like the sea!
Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,
Invite the grasp of Britons bold,