Though better minstrels far than I|
May strike the quiv'ring string;
And bards more worthy of the theme
Thy praises loud shall sing.
Yet I, a wand'ring harper blind,
With sightless up turned eye,
By harp and voice to honor Wales,
My feeble strains to try.
2. My voice upraised to wild swept chords|
I sing thy fertile dales;
Thy frowning mountains, rushing streams,
And all that makes thee, Wales.
All these I love and all have seen
Though gone now is my sight,
I can but feel the breezes play
For all the rest is night.
3. But even yet, it ye'll but list,|
To my old harp's best note,
I'll sing to you your country's deeds,
To them my songs devote.
Now guided by my faithful hound
I stray from door to door,
And tell how Wales has fought and bled,
And tales of old time lore.
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