In Honour of St. David's Day

When good St. David, as old writs record,
Exchanged his sacred Crosier for a sword,
Nor drum nor standard kept his men together,
Each smelt his neighbour's vegetable feather.
In heart and stomach stout they turned not crupper:
The Foe their breakfast was, the Leek their supper.

The Old

Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.

He Has Made Me Suffer

O cuckoo, who singest merrily, playing with thy beak in the Shenbaka flowers, laden with honey,
The god, who holds a white conch in his left hand, has not shown his form to me, but has entered into my heart and has made me suffer sorely.
Wilt thou sing, but not too loudly, so that he may come to me?

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