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THE LAND THAT I LOVE THE BEST.

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THE LAND THAT I LOVE THE BEST. (Adapted from the Welsh.) Here in the West by the waves, unrest Lies the Land that I love the best. Land of my birth, home of sweet mirth, Fairest and rarest spot on earth. Where the waves roar on a rugged shore At the foot of the mountain evermore. Land of the loud storm and the cloud, Land of the hill and the misty shroud. Dimpled with dales, smiling with vales, Is there a land like my Beautiful Wales Where the clouds' array in a sky of grey With gorgeous colours adorn the day. Where the moon's wan light from the fount of night Peacefully bathes each crazy height. Land of the Free, here I would be, Where Snowdon towers above the sea. Here song-birds roam by the wild sea-foam Land of the Bard and the Harper's home Where the night-mists creep o'er the slum- b'ring deep, Land where my Fathers lie asleep. Through the grey caves wail the salt waves Hard by the bards' and the warriors' graves. 0, the Great Dead on the ground o'erhead The feet of Freedom triumphant tread. Barren and bleak, Land wbere winds shriek, Wounded passing the mountain peak. Smiling and fair are the valleys there, Waving with wheat like a maiden's hair. Grim and brown the wild rocks frown, Where the angry cataract plunges down. Blue and wide 'neath the bare hill-side, The peaceful waters of Tivy glide. Ever so high, lost to the eye, Carols the lark in her summer sky. Here on the tree, heedless of me, Whistles the blackbird merrily. Hark through the dim twilight a hymn Floats on the voices of seraphim. Hear it arise into the skies, Sung in the language of Paradise. Through the moonlight pale from a lonely vale Trembles the song of the nightingale, Sad and forlorn, pierced with a thorn, Breaking her heart with the break of morn. There in the tree lamenteth she The ancient glories of Cymru Fu. Cambria, thy lays, mournful always Sigh for the glories of other days. From the face of Light, the crouching night Hides in the valley pale with fright. O'er the hill tops, hark the joyous lark Early proclaimeth the death of dark. Over the heath to the world beneath Sings he the glories of Cymru Fydd. Here still abide in some locked hill-side, The heroes of Arthur, who never died. Let the day break when they awake, Cambria's enemies shall quake. Land of my birth, home of sweet mirth, Fairest and rarest spot on earth. Here in the West, by the waves' unrest, Lies the land that I love the best. Abertillery. SARNICOL.

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THE PARLIAMENT OF '34.

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