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And all that in the moonshyne lay,
And backward scudded overhead
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
'I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
Our race is ridde, oure journey ore,
And lo! an yren-grated gate
They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode;
And many a tombstone gostlie white
And when hee from his steede alytte,
His head became a naked skull;
And att his dry and boney heele
And inn his witherde hand you might
And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,
And hollow howlings hung in aire,
But onwarde to the judgment seat,
Through myste and moonlight dreare, The gostlie crewe their flyghte persewe, And hollowe inn her eare:
'Be patient, though thyne herte should breke, Arrayne not Heven's decree;
Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,
THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.
THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
Obey'd Llewellyn's horn.
The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewelyn the Great had a house.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer, 'Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last, Llewelyn's horn to hear.
'Oh! where does faithful Gêlert roam, The flower of all his race?
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
But now no Gêlert could be found,
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
That day Llewelyn little loved
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied:
The greyhound, named Gêlert, was given to him by his father in law, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day is called Beth Gêlert, or the Grave of Gêlert.
But when he gain'd his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood : The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore; His lips, his fangs ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise:
And on went Gêlert too,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
He call'd his child, no voice replied;
Blood, blood he found on every side;
'Hell hound! my child by thee's devour'd!' The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell
Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap
Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread;
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn, all dead, 'Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe: 'Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow, which laid thee low,
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
There never could the spearman pass,
There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
And there he hung his horn and spear,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,