Sweet land of the mountain, the valley, the wood,
Of chiefs that for ages in honour have stood!
Renown'd, too, for all thy dear minstrels so long:
O Cambria! forget not the bard and his song.

Still live in thy children the virtues of old,
But think of the tale, in thy history told;
The tyrant, who meant thee in chains to expire,
First slaughtered thy minstrels, and silenc'd thy lyre!