War song of the men of Glamorgan (Triban gwyr Morgannwg)

Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,

And hammers' din, and anvil sounds,

And armourers, with iron toil,

Barb many a steed for battle's broil.

Foul fall the hand which bends the steel

Around the courser's thund'ring heel,

That e'er shall dint a sable wound

On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil

That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;

Their orphans long the art may rue,

For Neville's war horse forg'd the shoe.

No more the stamp of armed steed

Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;

Nor trace be there, in early spring,

Save of the fairies' emerald ring.