From rock and heather, Spring up together, Fierce as the eagle, Staunch as the beagle; From the heart’s fountain, Sons of the mountain, Shout the war cry of Glyndoor! England advances, Proud of her lances, Gallant and sightly, Noble and knightly, Wales frowns before her, Death hovers o’er her— Forward to the battle moor;— Fate hath decreed ’em, Victims to freedom; And banners flying, O’er dead and dying— Wave for Cambria’s great Glyndoor!
{ 143} JENNY DAVIES. (_Air_—“Llwyn-onn.”) Arranged by W. FORDE. _Allegretto_.
I’m call’d Jenny Davies, The fairest of Ladies, And dwell on the bank-side where primroses grow; My cheeks are like cherries, My lips sweet strawberries, My eyes are as black as the wild mountain sloe. My heart’s warm and tender, My waist small and slender, I bound o’er the hills like the young mountain row; I’m blithesome and witty, Then sure ’tis a pity, That I for a husband should sight forth heigh ho!
With sighing and suing, Young Arthur came wooing, But he was too shy for a buxom young lass, Then came handsome Harry, Who press’d me to marry, But he was too fond of his toilet and glass; Then followed brave Rowland, Who lives in the low-land, But he was too rough for a delicate maid; Sure, sure ’tis a pity, A young girl so pretty, Should sigh for a husband and pine in the shade.
Young Carlie abused me, And sadly misused me, He vow’d to be mine and ran off with Miss Jones; And last came a Quaker, A grave undertaker, Who promis’d he’d soon make me bone of his bones; But he late and early Is peevish and surly, No longer I smile, and to dance I’m afraid; I can’t bear to choose him, And yet if I lose him, Perhaps, (Oh, my stars!) I shall die an old maid.
{ 176} MOUNTAIN MARY. (_Air_—“Cader Idris.”) Arranged by W. FORDE. _Allegretto_.
The sun had gone down, and the monarch of mountains Had robed his dark form in a mantle of cloud; The primroses slept by the summer dried fountains, And beauty’s own river seem’d dreaming aloud. In the dale of the Hazel all nature seem’d weeping, And mild was the moon-light that silver’d the grove; But wakeful was morn flew my own mountain Mary, To gladden my heart with the breathings of love.
She looked down to blush, from the gaze of her lover, Her snowy lids veiling her heaven-blue eyes; More sweet was her breath than the dew-sprinkled clover, When morning first breaks through the gates of the skies. The land-breeze sprang up, and my bark tripp’d her anchor, Ah me, how we started to feel that fair wind, “Remember,” she cried, “the dear dale of the Hazel And poor mountain Mary left weeping behind.”