Byr Y Thodaidd Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

In Arthur’s Halls

In Arthur's Halls there lived a maid
Her charm and modesty displayed
And favours given on a white pennant
proclaimed her gallant knight.

He took her colours to the list
Held tight within his ironed fist
While she kneeled down that she might pray to God
To grant her lord the day

He plied his sword and mighty lance
But came unhappy circumstance
His charger slipped and blood ran red and hot
Her hero lay there dead

And thus the maid in modest pose
Did sorrowful in her repose
Ensconce herself in widow's weed so black
Bereaved, bereft indeed.



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Hiraeth (Home sickness)

My father said when I was young
That I should guard my mother tongue
But I was filled with arrogance and youth
In truth I failed his stance

I journeyed to a foreign land
Where welsh they did not understand
They cared not for that lilting luted voice
A choice I would refute.

Now Hiraeth bids me no more roam
My hills and valleys call me home
But I have no one there to share my speech
I reach out in despair.