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TOWN LAYS.
Only a vision of waters
Rising towards the flow,
Cometh instead of the countless hills,
The hills that I used to know.
O fy hen Gymraeg !
The people are frozen hard here —
Not you, my darling, not you ! —
And the air is thick with its yellow fog,
And the streets have slime for dew.
There is never a line of beauty
In all the weary rows,
And the saddest thing of the whole is this,
That the bareness no one knows ;
They are quite contented, and think it fine.
O fy hen Gymraeg !
Hush thee a moment, dearest,
A vision is mine just now :
The place where of old we used to play,
On the edge of the mountain's brow :
