Shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare.
It is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share.

The saplings of oak in yonder green glade
Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid.
It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.

The saplings of oak in their full summer pride
Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied.
It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.

The brambles with berries of purple are dressed;
In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest,
In silence the liar can never take rest.

Rain is without--wet the fern plume;
White the sea gravel--fierce the waves spume.
There is no lamp like reason man's life to illume.

Rain is without, but the shelter is near;
Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere,
God in Heaven, how couldst Thou create cowards here!





HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!

(From a twelfth-century MS., "The Black Book of Carmarthen")