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  • Print publication year: 2009
  • Online publication date: July 2017

24 - Welsh Airs

from Anne Hunter's poetry

Summary

Llwyn Onn

The Ash Grove

Sir Watkyn's Dream

Sir Watkyn intending,

The morning befriending,

Through woodlands descending,

To hunt the wild deer;

Now slumb'ring, of course, Sir,

Dreams of his bay horse, Sir,

And proud of his force, Sir,

Begins his career.

And forth as he sallies,

Up hills and down vallies,

Around him he rallies,

A train like a peer.

His hunter goes featly,

His stag-hounds run fleetly,

The bugle sounds sweetly,

They raise a fat doe.

Now turning and winding,

Then losing, then finding,

No obstacle minding,

Still forward they go.

All danger subduing,

Impatient pursuing,

With ardour renewing,

Yet ever too slow.

Deep woods lay before them,

Now soon closing o'er them,

The knight to explore them,

Dismounting moves on:

There found the doe lying,

Bemoaning and crying,

As if she were dying,

Behind a grey stone.

When stooping to raise her,

Before the dogs seize her,

As brisk as a bee, Sir,

Away she was gone.

With whoop and with hollo,

His merry men follow,

She skims like a swallow,

And flies like the wind.

Sir Watkyn, however,

Who quits the chace never,

Swam over a river,

And left them behind.

The day was fast closing,

His way he was losing,

The road was so posing,

No path he could find.

A castle high frowning,

The loft rock crowning,

Dim twilight embrowning,

Hung over his head.

And thitherward bending,

With slow steps ascending,

The courser attending,

He cautiously led.

Now dark'ness o'ertaking,

And craggs the way breaking,

He fell,—and awaking,

The vision was fled!

Codiad yr Haul

The Rising Sun

The Sylphs

Softly, softly sing;

Hand in hand glide swiftly round;

Gaily, gaily, gaily,

Mark the measur'd sound:

Let us skim the meadows fair,

Now on waving pinions rise;

Lightly beat the wanton air,

And breathing sweet ascend the skies,

Softly, softly sing;

Hand in hand glide swiftly round;

Gaily, gaily, gaily,

Mark the measur'd sound:

On the breast of yonder rose,

Let us rest our wearied wings;

Not a flower in spring that blows,

Around so mild an odour flings.

Softly, softly sing;

Hand in hand glide swiftly round;

Gaily, gaily, gaily,

Mark the measur'd sound.

Blooming rose, thy beauty's pride,

Fades before the noontide hour:

Zephyrs rise on ev'ry side,

And fan your lovely drooping flower.

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The Life and Poems of Anne Hunter
  • Online ISBN: 9781781388464
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