We were a people taut for war; the hills br Were no harder, the thin grass br Clothed them more warmly than the coarse br Shirts our small bones. br We fought, and were always in retreat, br Like snow thawing upon the slopes br Of Mynydd Mawr; and yet the stranger br Never found our ultimate stand br In the thick woods, declaiming verse br To the sharp prompting of the harp. br Our kings died, or they were slain br By the old treachery at the ford. br Our bards perished, driven from the halls br Of nobles by the thorn and bramble. br We were a people bred on legends, br Warming our hands at the red past. br The great were ashamed of our loose rags br Clinging stubbornly to the proud tree br Of blood and birth, our lean bellies br And mud houses were a proof br Of our ineptitude for life. br We were a people wasting ourselves br In fruitless battles for our masters, br In lands to which we had no claim, br With men for whom we felt no hatred. br We were a people, and are so yet. br When we have finished quarrelling for crumbs br Under the table, or gnawing the bones br Of a dead culture, we will arise br And greet each other in a new dawn.