There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;
Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold,
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;
So the King’s ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. 
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,
And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I’m old and going—­I’m sure I can’t tell where;
One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t be worse off there: 
If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

Eversley, 1857,

THE KNIGHT’S RETURN

Hark! hark! hark! 
The lark sings high in the dark. 
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own? 
Hark! hark! hark! 
The lark sings high in the dark.

Hark! hark! hark! 
The lark sings high in the dark. 
Long have I wander’d by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me! 
Hark! hark! hark! 
The lark sings high in the dark.

Written for music, 1857.

PEN-Y-GWRYDD:  TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.

There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three—­
One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me,
One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can’t mind its name,
And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows