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Fill high the blue Hirlas!
That shines
like a wave,
When sunbeams are bright,
On the spray of the sea,
And bear thou the rich
Foaming mead to the brave
The
Dragons of Battle,
The sons of the Free!
To those from whose spears,
In the shock of the flight
A beam like Heav'n's
lightning,
Flash oe'er the field.
To those who came rushing,
As storms in their might,
Who have shiver'd the helmet,
And
cloven the shield.
The sound of whose strife
Was like oceans afar.
When lances were red
From the harvest of war!
Fill
high the blue Hirlas!
O, cupbearer fill!
For the lords of the field
In their festival's hour,
And let the mead
foam
Like the stream of the hill,
That bursts o'er the rock
In the pride of its pow'r
Praise, priase to the mighty
Fill
high the smooth horn
Of honor and mirth,
For the conflict is o'er;
And round let the golden tipp'd
Hirlas be borne
To
the lion defenders
Of Gwynnedd's fair shore,
Who rush'd to the field
Where the glory was won,
As eagles that
soar
From their cliffs to the sun!
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