The Cambrian Swain
(ii) THE CAMBRIAN SWAIN
Where cider ends there ale begins to reign,
And warms on Brecknock hills the Cambrian swain;
High on the summit of King Arthur's Chair
He quaffs his ale, and breathes untainted air;
Looks down on Hereford with scornful eyes —
Esteems himself a native of the skies:
Puffed with the thoughts of his exalted birth,
He scorns the humble mushroom sons of earth;
His high descent from time's first dawn can trace,
From Gomer down to Owen Tudor's race;
Thinks none so great on this terraqueous ball —
Himself the ragged emperor of all.
This mountain prince outflies ballooning Kings,
A cloud his car — the winds his whistling wings.
Where cider ends there ale begins to reign,
And warms on Brecknock hills the Cambrian swain;
High on the summit of King Arthur's Chair
He quaffs his ale, and breathes untainted air;
Looks down on Hereford with scornful eyes —
Esteems himself a native of the skies:
Puffed with the thoughts of his exalted birth,
He scorns the humble mushroom sons of earth;
His high descent from time's first dawn can trace,
From Gomer down to Owen Tudor's race;
Thinks none so great on this terraqueous ball —
Himself the ragged emperor of all.
This mountain prince outflies ballooning Kings,
A cloud his car — the winds his whistling wings.
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