Chapter IV

Ah! through my trembling heart Pierce, like a bitter dart, Anguish and terror; Hark to the foemen's vaunt, Boasting and bitter taunt Of Saxon warrior. Nay, do not triumph so, Do not rejoice as though Your deeds were glorious; Not your own valour brave, Numbers, not courage, have Made you victorious. Those who on every side, Have marked the battle's tide, Praying for Cymru's arms, Filled now with wild alarms, The heights are scaling. Old men and children flee, As in amaze they see, Their chosen warriors yield, On Rhuddlan's bloody field, The foe prevailing.