A Song of
the Welsh
(St. David’s
Day, 1916)
By A.G.
Prys-Jones
There is a
race in an island place that rose in the morning gleam
And made its
sword of an olden song, its armour cut of a dream:
And its
warriors died in a stubborn pride that recked no price of tears,
And the eyes
of a nation’s hope grew bright, like roses out of the dawn,
But ever the
dark of the shadow came and the twilight fell forlorn,
For the feet
of the iron legions pressed where Menai sobbed and sighed,
And the
Saxons came in a roaring flame: and
Arthur swooned and died.
Then rose a
host from out of the foam, and a tyrant out of the sea,
And harried
the race of the singing sword with the hounds of Normandy,
Till the
quarry turned, their arrows burned, their lances thrust and leapt
At Evesham
grey in the bitter day when the soul of Montfort slept.
And the men
of the sword went far abroad when France was a blaze of spears,
And the
longbow’s dirge was a crimson surge at Crecy and Poitiers.
But over a
sunless road they trod when Glendower brake his shield,
Till the
song of the sword rang loud and clear in the crash of Bosworth Field.
Then, lo !
afar from Corsica the ravening eagles sped,
From the
Midland Sea to Muscovy where the trampled snows were red.
And the song
of the sword came calling wild, and Picton’s henchmen flew
From Badajos
through Quatre Brax to the crown of Waterloo.
And now,
through the plains that the nations spoil, the new-flung legions came,
Their path
was a torren of broken men, their feet were a scorching flame,
But the men
of the sword were linked with Gods and neither spell nor truce
Could stem
the spate from the Marne’s locked gate to the red, red wrath of Loos.
Their sword
is made of an olden song their armour out of a dream,
They have
seen in the rills of a thousand hills the word of the light’ning gleam.
Their dream
is the soul of man unbound from birth to eternity,
And the song
of the sword is a sounding chant of the psalm of liberty.
And the land
they love and the land they made and the place men know them by
Is a land
where a tree is a singing thing and the wind is a lullaby,
Where the
mists are white in the morning light as a maiden’s bridal veil,
In a home
that is ever the harp of song and legend and fairy-tale.
Source for biographical information: http://londonwelshlife.blogspot.co.uk/2009/04/poetry-1900-2000-g-prys-jones.html