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uHEN WLAD FY NHADAU" IN ENGLISH.

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uHEN WLAD FY NHADAU" IN ENGLISH. One of the subjects for competition at Colwyn Bay Eisteddfod was a metrical translation into English of the words of the Welsh National Anthem. Of the 23 who competed, the best was that submitted by Rev. G. E. Rees, Harwood Vicarage, Bolton. Mr. Ernest Rhys was the adjudicator, and in his remarks on the compositions states that of the 23 entries a third were not even rhymed or spelt correctly; another third were commonplace exercises, without a spark of light or fire in them. The rest were mainly good and bad, now delightful for a line, now high- rhetorical; now spirited, now flat again. Only three had sent experiments which showed any quality or temper; not one gave a version which wo aid convince a reasonably lyrical Englishman who cared for a good thing. The disappointing part of it was that those who failed because they did not know common English had none of those uncommon innocences which sometimes sur- prise one in crude art. They were merely dull or ignorant, without any impulsive idea of the tune to which the words were to be sung. It has to be admitted that the heartfelt lines of the original by Ieuan ab la go are not easy to turn into idiomatic singable English. In order to know the difficulty of it Mr. Rhys himself set to work in sanguine mood to make a version of his own, for- getting as far as possible any that had been printed, and using a certain freedom in the lyric equivalent. And here," he says, to give the twenty-two who did not get the prize their fair revenge, is the upshot :— OLD LAND OF MY FATHERS. Hen Wlad fy Nhadau." Old Land, that our fathers before us held dear, Land of heroes, son'g-lovers, that sang away fear To day call their fame from the grave where they For freedom and gave their heart-blood. [stood Chorus Land, Land, Too fondly I love thee, dear Land, Till warring sea and shore be gone, Pray God let the old tongue live on. Old mountain-built Cymru," the bard s Paradise, The farm in the cwm, the wild crag in the skies, The river that winds, have entwined tenderly With a love spell my spirit in me. Chorus Land, Land. &c. If the enemy smote thee, dear Land, as they said, The old tongue hath risen, to speak from the dead; Not a song could the traitor's hand hurt of thy Nor break the small-harp at thy hearth. [mirth, Chorus: Land, Land, Cymru we call thee, dear Land Till warring sea and shore be gone, Pray God let the old tongue live on.

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