Wales By Gwenallt Jones Translated by A.Z. Foreman Why give us all this misery? The wrack Of pain on flesh and blood like leaden weight, Your language on our shoulders like a sack, And your traditions fetters round our feet? The canker rots your colors everywhere. Your soul is scabbed with boils. Your song a scream. In your own land you are but a nightmare And your survival but a witch's dream. Still, we can't leave you in the filth to stand A generation's laughing-stock and jest. Your former freedom is our sword in hand, Your dignity a buckler at our breast. We'll grip our spears and spur our steeds: go brave Lest we should shame our fathers in their grave. The Original: Cymru Gwenallt Jones Paham y rhoddaist inni'r tristwch hwn, A'r boen fel pwysau plwm ar gnawd a gwaed? Dy iaith ar ein hysgwyddau megis pwn, A'th draddodiadau'n hual am ein traed? Mae'r cancr yn crino dy holl liw a'th lun, A'th enaid yn gornwydydd ac yn grach, Nid wyt ond...
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