Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high
Dwells Genius, basking on thy quiet air,
And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare,
And all wrapt round with fullest harmony
Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly
'Neath Nature their fit foster mother's care,
Thy children learn from infant hours to bear
And work the will of God. Thy scenery
So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong,
Works on them and to music moulds their mind,
Till flows their fancy in poetic rills.
The voice of Nature breathes in every song
And we may read therein thy features kind
As in some tarn that nestles 'neath thy hills.