BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS

In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor,
I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.

I followed three shadows against the moon,
That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,

Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars,
That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,

But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear,
I but brought thee home to break thee here."

And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home,
To which our tired hearts are come!"

And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr,
To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."

Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand,
His good sword bright in his right hand,

And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound,
To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.

The moon did shake in the south to see,