Welsh Journals

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London Welsh WE have scratched our names in the London dust, Sung sometimes like the Jews of Babylon Under the dusty trees of Hyde Park Comer, Almost believing in a Jesus of Cardigan Or a Moses on the mountains of Merioneth; We have dreamed by the Thames of Towy and Dee, And whistled in dairy shops in the morning, Whistled of Harlech and Aberdovey. We have grown sentimental in London Over things that we smiled at in Wales. Sometimes in Woolwich we have seen the mining valleys More beautiful than we ever saw them with our eyes. We have carried our accents into Westminster As soldiers carry rifles into the wars; We have carried our idioms into Piccadilly, Food for the critics on Saturday night. We have played dominoes in Lambeth with Alfred the Great, And lifted a glass with Henry VIII In the tavern under the railway bridge On Friday nights in winter; And we have argued with Chaucer down the Old Kent Road On the englynion of the Eisteddfod. We have also shivered by the Thames in the night And known that the frost has no racial distinctions. IDRIS DAVIES. The Coast of Kerry AND suddenly in this 'bus at Moorgate I recall the coast of Kerry in the evening drizzle, The mists low and dark along the nearest islands, A square brown cottage, the long garden, and wet pink roses, And Mrs. Farrell bidding a brisk goodnight To the smooth new priest Whose eyes are on the snarling spaniel;