BOLD LLEWELLYN


Through the damp mist, a swirling,

About the valleys of the north,

Appeared bold Llewellyn's form,

Claiming still, Cymru, its worth.


An army marched behind him,

Amongst which, a dragon gold,

Not men of renown and armed,

But faeries and spirits bold.


Force ancient, everlasting,

The good souls of all Welsh true,

No justice call was needed,

As the horn of truth was blew.


The heart and soul of Welsh folk,

Embodied in mystic lore,

Arose to seek out Longshanks,

Though his soul was now no more.


The faeries cried out loudly,

For they wished for matters right,

The wrongs, they sought corrected,

As did everyone that night.


What more telling truth is there,

When the nether life, so strong,

Knows a cause was justly so,

And rallies to right a wrong.


Playing before my old eyes,

Drifting slowly out of sight,

On errant, bold and worthy,

To restore that, true and right.


Llewellyn and his lore will,

Forever be marching on,

Cross mountain and down valley,

Still, when I have long since gone.


If that mist should part again,

And is heard a mournful call,

Fear not, 'tis bold Llewellyn,

With spirits of homeland, all.


For the valleys will be Welsh,

The mountains, lakes and trees.

As proud Llewellyn promised.

Once, never to bow the knee.