I MY SON, the moon is crimson, and a mist is in the sky Oh can't you hear the thudding feet, the horsemen speeding by? Oh can't you hear the muttering that swells upon the breeze And the whispers that are stealing through the chancel of the trees? To-night we two go riding, for the threads of fate are spun, And we muster far at Corwen at the rising of the sun. II My son, the winds are calling, and the mountains and the flood With a wail of deep oppression that wakes havoc in my blood. And I have waited, waited long throughout the bitter years For this hour of freedom's challenge and the flashing of the spears: So we two go riding, riding, through the meshes of the night, That we hail Glyndwr at Corwen at the breaking of the light. III My son, go kiss your mother, kiss her gently, she'll not wake, For a greater mother calls you, though you perish for her sake: Lo! the Dragon flag is floating out across the silver Dee, And the soul of Wales is crying at the very heart of me— Crying justice, crying vengeance: pray, my son, for strength anew, For there's many will be sleeping at the falling of the dew. |