The Hirlas Horn

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea;
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven’s lightning, flash’d over the field;
To those who came rushing as storms in their might,
Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.

Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill
For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour,
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill
That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power:
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn
Of honour and mirth, for the conflict is o’er;
And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne
To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore,
Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won,
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.
Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those
Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose,
Their lot shall be lovely--renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d--
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor shall swell with their name,
And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame.