Though better minstrels far than I
May strike the quiv'ring string;
bards more worthy of the theme
Thy praises loud shall sing.
Yet I, a wand'ring harper blind,
With sightless up turned
By harp and voice to honor Wales,
My feeble strains to try.
My voice upraised to wild swept chords
sing thy fertile dales;
Thy frowning mountains, rushing streams,
And all that makes thee, Wales.
All these I love
and all have seen
Though gone now is my sight,
I can but feel the breezes play
For all the rest is night.
even yet, it ye'll but list,
To my old harp's best note,
I'll sing to you your country's deeds,
To them my songs
Now guided by my faithful hound
I stray from door to door,
And tell how Wales has fought and bled,
tales of old time lore.