Ah! through my trembling heart
Pierce, like a bitter dart,
Anguish and terror;
Hark to the foemen's vaunt,
Boasting and bitter taunt
Of Saxon warrior.
Nay, do not triumph so,
Do not rejoice as though
Your deeds were glorious;
Not your own valour brave,
Numbers, not courage, have
Made you victorious.
Those who on every side,
Have marked the battle's tide,
Praying for Cymru's arms,
Filled now with wild alarms,
The heights are scaling.
Old men and children flee,
As in amaze they see,
Their chosen warriors yield,
On Rhuddlan's bloody field,
The foe prevailing.

V.

Mountain and lonely dell,
Dingle and rock and fell,
Echo with wailing;
E'en Snowdon's slopes on high
Ring with the bitter cry,