Words and music by Rhonwen y Llysieuyddes
(m.k.a. Julia Howarth West)
          D           A           D             A
     'Tis now, in the warm tender green time of spring
       D           A            D            A
     I think of my brother, the songs he did sing.
          D                          G             A
     With crwth or with harp by some cold mountain stream
                     D                G          A
     Amidst the pale flowers with his music he'd dream.
          G           D            G              A
     He'd sing of his love for the good things he knew--
          D      A    D                    A  D
     Fair women, good mead, and companions so true.

             Dm          A            Dm            A
          He went off to fight in the late snows of spring
              Dm            A                   Dm        A   Dm
          For Glyn Dwr, our Prince, 'gainst the troops of the King.
                             A           Dm     (tacet)
          With a song on his lips he did fight--and was killed.
                                      A        Dm
          And the music within him forever was stilled.

     'Tis now, in the warmth of a long summer day,
     That I think of my father; remember the way
     He would tell me long tales of Welsh heroes of old:
     Cadwaladr, Bran, or Llywelyn so bold.
     And he seemed, to my young eye, the essence of Wales--
     Like one of the heroes stepped out of the tales.

          He went off to fight in the cruel summer heat;
          For our Prince he brought many a foe to defeat.
          But even a hero's time comes to an end--
          Like Bran and Llywelyn his life he did spend.

     'Tis now, in the soft golden fall time of year,
     That I will remember my true love so dear.
     Who courted me through autumn's halcyon days
     With garland of oak-leaves and late flower sprays.
     He lay with me oft in the cold crystal dawn
     And told me our love must forever go on.

          He went off to fight in the chill rain of fall,
          His love for his Prince overshadowing all.
          But that love died with him on a cold mountain slope,
          And left me bereft of all comfort and hope.

     And now, in the cold of a bleak winter's morn
     I cradle the son who should ne'er have been born.
     My brother, my father, my lover--all dead.
     It's all I can do to be sure my child's fed.
     The heritage left him is warfare and strife;
     Gone are the good things I had in my life.

          They went off to war and I saw them no more.
          They left only mem'ries of love--and their lore.
          So I'll teach my son all their songs and their tales--
          Remembrance of beauty and freedom in Wales.
Words and music copyright © 1979 by Julia Howarth (West)

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