(no subject)
I actually wrote this one this past winter. ;) But due to hitches in the tune/ harp-chords, it wasn't really "performance-ready" until War.
It is a true story. When I first heard it, it hit my heart like a ton of bricks.
IMHO everyone who adopts the title "bard," ought to know about this young man. Firstly, to take his craft-devotion to heart as an example. Second, to mourn for the fact that literally thousands of creative young people like him were wiped out, in one of the most senseless military engagements known to man...
"YR ARWR: "The Hero"
In memoriam:
Ellis H. Evans (a.k.a. “Hedd Wyn.”)
Born: 1887 in Merionethshire, North Wales
Died: July 1917 at Pelkem Ridge, Belgium.
In Trawsfynydd a shepherd
Guards his lonely mountain town;
The likeness cast in metal
Of a hero of renown.
Likewise, across the Channel
On a foreign Flemish shore
A marker guards the graveside
Where he fell in the Great War.
Y Prifardd Hedd Wyn it reads,
The Chief Bard of the land
His name was Blessed Peace
And lyric verse flowed from his hand.
Not a scholar of great wisdom
Nor a warrior of might
Just a lowly lad whose heart
Was touched by Heaven’s golden light.
The drums of war did thunder
And the world in conflict reeled
The flower of the nations
Perished on the battlefield.
The poet was commanded
To take up an English gun
And with the sons of Gwynedd
Bade to slay the wicked Hun.
A man of light and gentleness
Adrift in No Man's Land
The prisoner of a struggle
That he did not understand.
So taking up the pen once more
He cast his thoughts in rhyme:
The sickness and the sorrow
Of young men slain before their time.
With heavy heart and spirit
Hedd Wyn told of how they died
The frightened lads who huddled
In the trenches by his side
He comforted their families
And he tried to keep the flame
Of hope still burning, though the world
Would never be the same.
Now to the ancient Eisteddfod
Came poets far and near,
To judge who’d rule among them
As the Prince of Bards that year.
Thrice the elders called out
For the shepherd-boy to rise
To come and claim the sacred Chair,
The Master Poet’s prize.
Then spoke a voice of anguish
To the crowd at Birkenhead:
“Hedd Wyn Fawr will rise no more;
In Flanders he lies dead.”
The throne was draped in funeral-black
The hall in silence mourned
The bards composed high elegies
For the son of Yr Ysgwrn.
In Trawsfynydd, his image stands
His words are carved beneath
An echo through the ages
Of a generation’s grief:
"Ei arberth nid a heibio -- ei wyned
Annwyl nid a'n ango
Er I'r Almaen ystaenio
Ei dwrn dur yn ei waed o.”
It is a true story. When I first heard it, it hit my heart like a ton of bricks.
IMHO everyone who adopts the title "bard," ought to know about this young man. Firstly, to take his craft-devotion to heart as an example. Second, to mourn for the fact that literally thousands of creative young people like him were wiped out, in one of the most senseless military engagements known to man...
"YR ARWR: "The Hero"
In memoriam:
Ellis H. Evans (a.k.a. “Hedd Wyn.”)
Born: 1887 in Merionethshire, North Wales
Died: July 1917 at Pelkem Ridge, Belgium.
In Trawsfynydd a shepherd
Guards his lonely mountain town;
The likeness cast in metal
Of a hero of renown.
Likewise, across the Channel
On a foreign Flemish shore
A marker guards the graveside
Where he fell in the Great War.
Y Prifardd Hedd Wyn it reads,
The Chief Bard of the land
His name was Blessed Peace
And lyric verse flowed from his hand.
Not a scholar of great wisdom
Nor a warrior of might
Just a lowly lad whose heart
Was touched by Heaven’s golden light.
The drums of war did thunder
And the world in conflict reeled
The flower of the nations
Perished on the battlefield.
The poet was commanded
To take up an English gun
And with the sons of Gwynedd
Bade to slay the wicked Hun.
A man of light and gentleness
Adrift in No Man's Land
The prisoner of a struggle
That he did not understand.
So taking up the pen once more
He cast his thoughts in rhyme:
The sickness and the sorrow
Of young men slain before their time.
With heavy heart and spirit
Hedd Wyn told of how they died
The frightened lads who huddled
In the trenches by his side
He comforted their families
And he tried to keep the flame
Of hope still burning, though the world
Would never be the same.
Now to the ancient Eisteddfod
Came poets far and near,
To judge who’d rule among them
As the Prince of Bards that year.
Thrice the elders called out
For the shepherd-boy to rise
To come and claim the sacred Chair,
The Master Poet’s prize.
Then spoke a voice of anguish
To the crowd at Birkenhead:
“Hedd Wyn Fawr will rise no more;
In Flanders he lies dead.”
The throne was draped in funeral-black
The hall in silence mourned
The bards composed high elegies
For the son of Yr Ysgwrn.
In Trawsfynydd, his image stands
His words are carved beneath
An echo through the ages
Of a generation’s grief:
"Ei arberth nid a heibio -- ei wyned
Annwyl nid a'n ango
Er I'r Almaen ystaenio
Ei dwrn dur yn ei waed o.”