Welsh Journals

SAUNDERS LEWIS Ac er mwyn Cymru buost ti yn ffwl, Yn ffwl fel holl ferthyron Crist a Mair, Taflasant atat eu pelenni pwl Fel cocyn hitio yn stondingau'r ffair: I blith ysbwriel Lloegr y'th fwriwyd draw, Yn un o'i hadar creim, ar unig glwyd, A Chymry, yn dy gefn, â'u bradog law Yn rhoddi'r bustl ar ben y wermod lwyd. Ni'th glwyfwyd di; ni fennodd amat ddim, Cans cododd Cymru gaer o'th amgylch di, Ni ddichon eu cythreuldeb hwy na'u grym Fyth dreiddio drwy ei meini cabol hi, A saif y Forwyn Fair, fel twr uwchben, Gan ddiffodd pob pel dan a'i mantell wen. D. GWENALLT JONES. LAND OF MY MOTHERS The crumbs of Autumn strew the rough roads to November hills where sheep baa baa to moon and stars. To moon and Mars and Mas of Wales, Wales, Wales, my own. Grey skies cloak the ragged town, and drapers deal in second- hand dreams. John lies down and turns his nose to night. John, John, will you arise to meat or crusts or chaff of summer love ? The river shines with empty tins, and all the girls of glory coax the leg of love. The river sulks and groans and repeats its guttural name to ghosts of bellowing boys. Lime. Stick to the land. Line up. The king goes by. Forget and fret no more. Death and Royalty are rich. Line up and be dumb. Spread ye the carpets of Persia over the Monmouth hill. The night is over. The hail resumes the silver chorus of the slain. Gwalia awake, the big-meeting preachers shake hands and loosen braces, and parsnips sprout in Armageddon full of straw and loud in praise of night and might and more to come. 'Twixt pub and chapel the sons of Gwent pull on the rougher wool. The cattle kill the cleaner of the brown vestry where John stood on rainy Sabbath telling breakfast tales of Palestine,