A Celtic Psaltery Part 19

Though the blue slab hides our laddy, Slumber, free of fear!

Well we know it, I and daddy, Naught can harm you here.

You and all the little sleepers, Their small graves within, Have bright angels for door-keepers.

Sleep, Goronwy Wyn!

Ah, too well I now remember, Darling, when you slept, How the children from your chamber Jealously I kept.

Now how willingly to wake you I would let them in, If their merry noise could make you Move, Goronwy Wyn!

Sleep, though mother is not near you, In G.o.d's garden green!

Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you, Lovely to be seen; Six small primroses to show us Summer-time is ours; Though, alas! locked up below us, Lies our flower of flowers.

Sleep! to mother's love what matters Pa.s.sing time or tide?

On my ear your footstep patters, Still my babe you bide.

All the others moving, moving, Still disturb my breast; But the dead have done with roving, You alone have rest.

Then, beneath the primrose petals, Sleep, our heart's delight!

Darkness o'er us deeply settles; We must say "Good night!"

Your new cradle needs no shaking On its quiet floor.

Sleep, my child! till you are waking In my arms once more.

THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD

(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading "New Bards")

Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush, Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped; Early on the mountain ranged his reapers, Above his mattock late he bowed his head.

Love's celestial rapture once he tasted, Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept.

Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall, He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,

With the poor he shared his scanty earnings, To the Lord his laden heart he breathed; On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine, And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.

Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings, Yet more dearly loved her early lore, Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings The far, faint echoes of her ancient sh.o.r.e.

Yestereven he hung up his sickle, Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er, Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges, To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.

THE QUEEN'S DREAM

(To a Welsh Air of the name)

From the starving City She turned her couch to seek, With pearls of tender pity On her queenly cheek; There in restless slumber She dreamt that she was one Of that most piteous number By distress undone.

In among that sullen brood, In homeless want she glided, While in mock solicitude Her fate they thus derided: "Queen, now bear thee queenly, In destiny's despite!

If _thou_ wilt starve serenely, We poor wretches might."

But, amid their mocking, "The King, the King!" they cry, And forward they run flocking While He pa.s.ses by; With the crowd she mixes Her cruel shame to hide; When, O, what wonder fixes The surging human tide?

There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head, Hands of supplication, Multiplying mystic bread For her famished nation.

"Children thus remember My poor and Me!" He spoke, And in her palace chamber Weeping she awoke.

THE WELSH FISHERMEN

(To the air of "The Song of the Bottle")

Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth!

Wind, boys, and a spanker Racing due south!

Where 'ood you be going?

How, now can ye hoist your sails?

When blossoms be blowing Over Welsh Wales!

Dear hearts for the herring, Sure, after the herring, Hot after the herring, Each ship of us sails.

Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth!

Wind boys and a spanker, Racing due south.

"Men, when you go rocking, Out under the angry gale, Wives' hearts begin knocking, La.s.ses turn pale.

Oh, why start a-fishing Far, far and across the foam?

Give way to our wishing; Stay, stay at home!"

"Now, but for King Herring, What 'ood you be wearing, How 'ood you be faring How keep ye warm?

Lest loaves should be failing, Lest children for want take harm, Men still will go sailing Out into the storm."

Then men, since it must be, Then men, since it must be so, Christ, Christ shall our trust be, When the winds blow.

Once when He was sleeping, "Save Lord!" the disciples cried, "Wild waters are leaping Over the side!"

See He has awoken!

Hark, hark, He has spoken, "Peace, peace," and in token Down the storm died.

Lord G.o.d of the billows, Still succour the fishing smack!

Give peace to our pillows, Bring our men back!

III. OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN