Which sweetly rang o'er dale and hill
In praise of Griffith's son.
Oh when again shall music sweet
Ring from the mellow horn;

Or from yon bills the deer's light feet
Sweep the cold dews of morn.

THE CHAUNT OF THE BARDS, On the evening preceding their reported massacre, in the reign of Edward I.

Air.-The Song of David the Prophet.

By Mrs. Hemans.

THIS melody, (which is very ancient) is published in the third volume of the Archaiology of Wales, in the notation used by the bards in the eleventh Century. W. O. Pughe, D. C. L. has given an excellent Welsh translation of the above beautiful lines. Vide Parry's Welsh Melodies, vol. I.

RAISE ye sword! let the death-stroke be given,
Oh swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven !
So shall our spirits be free as our strains,
The children of song may not languish in chains.

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest ?
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast?
Red with their blood do her mountain streams flow,
And think ye that still we would linger below?

MINOR.

Rest, ye brave dead, 'midst the hills of your sires!
Oh who would not slumber when Freedom expires?
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain,-
The children of song may not breathe in the chain.

THE SWEET FLOWING MUSE.

Air.-Glan Meddwdod Mwyn.

By John Parry.

THIS song was originally written for, and sung with great applause at the Grand Cambrian Jubilee, which was celebrated in London, March 1, 1814, being the centenary meeting of the most honourable society of the Ancient Britons. It has since become very popular, and has been loudly applauded at several of the Eisteddvods, or Cambrian Literary and Musical Meetings.

O LET the kind minstrel attune his soft lay,
And welcome with rapture this thrice happy day!
Let nought but sweet harmony strike on the ear,
Where Cymru* united, delighted appear!

Contented or wretched, imprison'd or free,
Still Cambria to Cambrians most anwyl+ must be,
Mewn awen fwyn lawen byw byth y bo Hi.‡

Though far from her mountains and valleys we roam,
Still she is our mother, still she is our home!
Oh! never may discord, ambition, nor pride,
The undeb§ of Cymru unwisely divide!

Nor let us, whatever our fortune may be,
Dear Cambria, be ever unmindful of thee,
Mewn awen fwyn lawen byw byth y bo Hi.

The cause which unites us on this happy day,
Doth genius, and science, and learning display;
The smile of our nobles, renown'd as of old,
Hen Gymru's true glory and weal shall uphold.

Exalted by talents of every degree,

In honor resplendent, far-famed may she be,
Mewn awen fwyn lawen byw byth y bo Hi.

The Shamrock of Erin, so brilliant and green,
Entwined with the Leek and the Thistle has been ;
And may they forever a safe-guard compose,
To shelter from danger Old England's fair Rose!
Oh grant that Great Britain forever may be
The terror of tyrants, the friend of the free,
Mewn llwyddiant a llawnder byw byth byddo Hi!*

OF NOBLE RACE WAS SHENKIN.
A Burlesque Poem.
By John Dryden.

THIS very popular melody, the continual theme of eulogy among natives and foreigners, has here been burlesqued, at the expense of our nationality, in the following humorous song. Mr. John Parry remarks, when this song is performed without an accompaniment, the singer imitates the symphony, and fills the measure by a burlesque "thrum, thrum, thrum, &c. e. g."

OF Noble race was Skenkin,
Thrum, thrum, thrum,

Of the line of Owen Tudor,
Thrum, &c.

But her renown was fled and gone,
Thrum, &c.

But her renown was fled and gone,
Since cruel love pursued hur.

May she ever enjoy prosperity and Plenty.

Fair Winny's eyes bright shining,
And lily breasts alluring,

With fatal dart smote Shenkin's heart,
And wounded past all curing.

Hur was the prettiest fellow
At foot-ball or at cricket;
At prison-base and hunting chase,
Cotsplut how hur would nick it!

But now, all joys defying,

All pale and wan her cheeks too;
Hur heart so aches hur quite forsakes
Hur herrings and hur leeks too.

No more must dear metheglin

Be toped at dear Montgomery;

And if love sore smart one week more,
Adieu cream-cheese and flum'ry!

THE SAXON MAID WITH YELLOW HAIR. By S. R. Jackson.

His golden harp let Urien bring,

The harp his sires were wont to bear,
And Hubert's daughter's praises sing,
The Saxon maid with yellow hair.

Caerleon's pride, the blue-eyed maid,
The gem of Dyvi's wood-girt shore;
Oh may her beauty never fade,
Nor youthful hearts cease to adore!

Stately her step, as on the hill

The deer's, when it in freedom roves:

When she is near, no heart is still,
No eye is cold where Ellen moves.

Sweeter than morning's air her breath,
Sweeter than evening's mead her lip,
'Twere bliss t' inhale it e'en in death,
'Twere extacy such balm to sip.

His golden harp let Urien bring,
The harp his sires were wont to bear,
And Hubert's lovely daughter sing,
The Saxon maid with yellow hair.

THE MAN WHO WILL SLANDER.
Air.-Hela'r Ysgyfarnog. (Hunting the Hare.)
By John Parry, Esq.

THIS air is universally known and admired in England, but few only are aware that it is Welsh. We live in an age, however, when the scattered chaplet of Cambria shall be re-gathered, every stolen gem reclaimed, and wreathed into a native garland for her long-reft

brows.

THE man who will slander or injure another,

Deserves not the name of a neighbour or friend;

But he who revileth an innocent brother,

If I had my will to old Charon I'd send!

Such fellows, I'm certain, can never be easy,

Their conscience will smite them at morn, noon, or night;

For conscience, they tell us, forever will teaze ye,

Unless you act justly, and do what is right.

How different the feelings of those who will cherish
The virtuous in trouble, and worth in distress!
Their names will be writ where they never can perish,
And infants be taught their fond mem'ry to bless.