'Mur Mawr'



Cradled in the giant arms of the Glyder mountains
In stone, hewn by the savage winds;
Nestling in pastures sweet
Stands little ‘Mur Mawr’


Its strong grey stone
Speaks of the heritage of a proud nation;
Of working hands, and faces wrinkled with toil
Once laughing at the end of day
By its fireside.


A child of the mountain
It stands;
Defiantly facing the West wind;
But is O, so gentle in its welcome
And O, so welcoming
To those who long
For its sweet peace.