Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush,
Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped;
Early on the mountain ranged his reapers,
Above his mattock late he bowed his head.

Love's celestial rapture once he tasted,
Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept.
Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall,
He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,

With the poor he shared his scanty earnings,
To the Lord his laden heart he breathed;
On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine,
And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.

Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings,
Yet more dearly loved her early lore,
Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings
The far, faint echoes of her ancient shore.

Yestereven he hung up his sickle,
Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er,
Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges,
To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.