Men of Harlech
the beacon's light is flaming
With its tongues of fire proclaiming
Chieftains, sundered to your shaming
Strongly now unite
At her call, all Arfon rallies
War cries rend her hills and vallies
Troop on troop, with headlong sallies
Hurtle to the fight
Chiefs lie dead and wounded.
Yet, where first was grounded,
Freedom's flag still holds the crag;
Her trumpet still is sounded.
There we'll keep her banner flying,
While the pale lips of the dying
Echo to our shouts defying
HARLECH for the right!
Shall the Saxon army shake you
Smite, pursue and overtake you?
Men of Harlech, God will make you
Victors, blow for blow.
The swollen rivers of Eryri
Sweep the vale with flooded fury
Gwalia from her mountain eryie
Thunders on the foe.
Now avenging Briton,
Smite as he has smitten
Let your rage on history's page
In Saxon blood be written.
His lance is long, but yours is longer.
Strong his sword, but yours is stronger.
One stroke more, and now your wronger
At your feet, lies low.