Penarfon. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Awake the voice of Arfon's praise—
Penarfon, son of ancient days!
Descending from the depth of Time,
Behold Penarfon's race sublime!
Proclaim their deeds;—they come! they come!
In glory o'er the clouded tomb;
For though in death their ashes lie,
The fame of heroes cannot die.

Awake the voice of Arfon's praise,
And give his fame to other days!
When strangers came our land to spoil,
Penarfon, where was he the while?
Oh! where was he?—where should he be?
Amid his dying foes was he!
Penarfon's scythe the field did sweep,
Penarfon's sword the ground did keep.

Awake the voice of Arfon's praise,
And let his wisdom have our lays!
When the rude spoilers he had spoil'd,
Penarfon as a dove was mild;
And where he dwelt was safety felt,
And even justice forth he dealt.
Shall happy days like Arfon's reign,
To Cymru e'er return again?

Awake the voice of Arfon's praise,
And let his bounty have our lays!
To feast within his banquet hall,
His bards and warriors he would call;
And there they drank the honey wine,
And there was sung the lay divine.
But song of bard, and freedom's host,
Oh, Cymru! are thy glories lost?
* Pronounced Kumry.