‘Ye Sons of the heroes, whose bravery tamed,
The proud-soaring Eagles of Rome;
Ye sons of the patriots, whose ready swords shamed,
The Saeson that threatened your home:
Say what is your Watchword? “It is, and shall be,
We are Sons of the Cymry, we are Sons of the Free.”
When the Norman by treachery entered your land,
Your ancestors rushed from their hills;
Repulsed the invader – then sheathed the red-brand;
The mountain-air Freedom instils!
What then was your Watchword?
“It was, and shall be,
“We are Sons of the Cymry, we are Sons of the Free.”
The Leek is your emblem, and bravely your Sires,
That emblem have borne in each clime;
The thought that inspired them, your hearts yet inspires;
And will to the end of all time!
For what is your Watchword? “It is, and shall be,
“We are Cons of the Cymry, we are sons of the Free.”
Oh! cherish the language your ancestors spoke;
Religion, and Liberty’s tongue!
‘Tis upright, and honest, uncalled by a yoke;
The language the Cymry bards sing!
To you then how sacred, that language should be,
The language of Cymry, the word of the Free!
And never let discord, or cowardice come,
In the seats where your fathers have dwelt;
Oh! never let Fashion, that new-fangled Drum,
Be heard, where the Bard’s strains were felt!
Beware of the Saeson; our Watchword must be,
“We are sons of the Cymry, we are sons of the Free.’
From: ‘SOLDANELLA, A Fragment.’
1 January 1839