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Men of Harlech

Hark! I hear the foe advancing,
Barbèd steeds are proudly prancing,
Helmets, in the sunbeams glancing, glitter through the trees.
Men of Harlech, lie ye dreaming?
See ye not their falchions gleaming,
While their pennons gaily streaming, flutter in the breeze?
From the rocks rebounding, let the war-cry sounding
Summon all at Cambria’s call, the haughty foe surrounding.
Men of Harlech, on to glory!
See your banner famed in story
Waves these burning words before ye,
“Britain scorns to yield!”

’Mid the fray, see dead and dying
Friend and foe together lying;
All around the arrows flying scatter sudden death.
Frightened steeds are wildly neighing,
Brazen trumpets hoarsely braying,
Wounded men for mercy praying, with their parting breath.
See, they’re in disorder, comrades keep close order!
Ever they shall rue the day they ventured o’er the border!
Now the Saxon flees before us,
Victory’s banner floateth o’er us!
Raise the loud exulting chorus,
“Britain wins the field!”