Ah! what avails this golden coat,
Or all the warblings of my throat,
While I in durance pine?
Give me again what nature gave,
’Tis all I ask, ’tis all I crave,
Thee, Liberty divine!
To love his language in its pride,
To love his land—tho’ all deride,
Is a Welshman’s ev’ry care,
And love those customs, good and old,
Practised by our fathers bold.
We travel, and each town we pass
Gives manners new, which we admire,
We leave them, then o’er ocean toss’d
Thro’ rough or smooth, to pleasure nigher,
Still one thought remains behind,
’Tis home, sweet home, our hearts desire.
Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free,
Dear to the bird is liberty;
Dear to the babe to be caress’d,
And fondled on his nurse’s breast,
Oh! could I but explain to thee
How dear is Merion’s land to me.
Low, ye hills, in ocean lie.
That hide fair Merion from mine eye,
One distant view, oh! let me take,
Ere my longing heart shall break.