The Blind Harper
Though better minstrels far than I
May strike the quiv'ring string;
And bards more worthy of the theme
Thy praises loud shall sing.
Yet I, a wand'ring harper blind,
With sightless up turned eye,
By harp and voice to honor Wales,
My feeble strains to try.
My voice upraised to wild swept chords
I sing thy fertile dales;
Thy frowning mountains, rushing streams,
And all that makes thee, Wales.
All these I love and all have seen
Though gone now is my sight,
I can but feel the breezes play
For all the rest is night.
But even yet, it ye'll but list,
To my old harp's best note,
I'll sing to you your country's deeds,
To them my songs devote.
Now guided by my faithful hound
I stray from door to door,
And tell how Wales has fought and bled,
And tales of old time lore.