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,
The dead man stand with his soldiery.
But the brighter his sword, the grave before,
Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.
Therein the thousand, before their Lord,
Marched at the summons of his bright sword.
Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain,
And I stood alone by the grave again.
But brightly his sword still before me shone,
Across the dark moor as I passed alone.
And still it shines, a silver flame,
Across the dark night of the Cymraec shame.