John Ceiriog Hughes was born September 25, 1832. He was for many years
clerk in the Goods Station, London Road, Manchester, and was afterwards
stationmaster on the Cambrian Line at Llanidloes, Towyn and Caersws
successively. He died at Caersws April 23rd, 1887. He published during
his lifetime 'Oriau'r Hwyr,' 1860; 'Oriau'r Bore,' 1862; 'Cant o
Ganeuon,' 1863; 'Y Bardd a'r Cerddor,' 1863; 'Oriau Ereill,' 1868; and
'Oriau'r Haf,' 1870. These are now published by Messrs. Hughes and Son,
Wrexham, and ought to be in the possession of every Welshman, and of
everyone desirous of learning Welsh. A posthumous volume was published
in 1888, 'Oriau Olaf' (Isaac Foulkes, Liverpool).
Songs of Wales.
Songs of Wales live in our ears
Through the swiftly passing years;
Moaning stormwinds as they blow
Murmur songs of long ago;
Voices of our dead ones dear
In our country's airs we hear.
Whispering leaves in every grove
Murmur low the songs we love,
Sings the sea 'neath roaring gales
Snatches of the songs of Wales,
And to Kymric ears they sound
Through creation all around.
Myfanwy.
Myfanwy! thy fair face is seen
In primrose and clover and rose,
In the sunshine, unsullied, serene,
And the starlight's untroubled repose.
When rises fair Venus on high,
And shines 'twixt the heaven and the sea,
She is loved by the earth and the sky,
But thou art, Myfanwy, far brighter, far fairer to me,
A thousand times fairer to me.
Would I were the breezes that blow
Through the gardens and walks of thy home,
To murmur my love as I go
And play with thy locks as I roam!
For changeful the breezes and bleak--
Now balmy, now chilly they blow--
Yet they, love, are kissing thy cheek,
O heart of my heart, not changeful my love towards thee--
Eternal my love towards thee!
Liberty.
See, see where royal Snowdon rears
Her hoary head above her peers
To cry that Wales is free!
O hills which guard our liberties,
With outstretched arms to where you rise
In all your pride, I turn my eyes
And echo, "Wales is free!"
O'er Giant Idris' lofty seat,
O'er Berwyn and Plynlimon great
And hills which round them lower meet,
Blow winds of liberty.
And like the breezes high and strong,
Which through the cloudwrack sweep along
Each dweller in this land of song
Is free, is free, is free!
Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep
Over that wretch's eyelids creep
Who bears with wrong and shame.
Make him to feel thy spirit high,
And like a hero do or die,
And smite the arm of tyranny,
And lay its haunts aflame.
Rather than peace which makes thee slave,
Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive,
Lay foul oppression in its grave,
No more the light to see.
Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze
And like the rolling thunder raise
Thy triumph song of joy and praise
To God--that thou art free!
Climb the hillside.
Climb the hillside in the morning--
When the radiant dawn is seen
Blushing shyly on the mountains
Like a maiden of thirteen.
"Quench the lamps of right,
Fill the earth with light
Wander o'er the lofty hills,
Fringe each brightening fold
Of the clouds with gold,"
This the hest shy dawn fulfils.
Climb the hillside in the evening
When the sun is sinking low--
You shall see day's radiant monarch
Falling bloodstained 'neath the foe.
Dark and darker yet
Grow day's cerements wet,
Creeps a haze across the main,
Mounts the moon on high,
Eve climbs up the sky,
Lamps of God to light again.
Change and permanence.
Still the mountains with us stay,
Still the winds across them roar,
Still is heard at dawn of day
Song of shepherd as of yore.
Still the countless daisies grow
On the hills, beneath the rocks,
But new swains, strange shepherds now
On our mountains feed their flocks.
Cymru's customs day by day
Change with changing fortune's wheel,
Friends of youth have passed away,
Strangers now their places fill;
After many a stormy day
Alun Mabon's dead and gone,
But the old tongue still holds sway,
And the dear old airs live on.