The Voice Of Glendour. - Poem by Samuel Bamford
'Come to glory, come with Glendour,
Freedom sheds immortal splendour!
Owain's battle-flag is flying,
Maids and wives are wildly crying,
Warriors' souls are cheering o'er us,
Shame behind, and death before us—
Shame, if basely we surrender,
Die or conquer then with Glendour!
Ye of ancient race, and purest,
Freedom is your guardian surest;
Could ye bear to live degraded,
Scorn'd as cowards and upbraided?
Have ye love, and would ye lose it,
If the lordly Saxon chose it?
Count your treasures worth defending,
All are on your arms depending.
As the sullen thunder breaketh,
Now the roar of war awaketh;
From unclouded hills and vallies,
All the pride of Cymru rallies.
See her mailed army shining
Like a scaly serpent twining;
Gripe the pard within thy folding,
Till his death unlocks thine holding!'
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