The Isle of ghosts
This is the land of the druids, the isle of dreams,
Where reading the Mabinogion and speaking
A Welsh vernacular is still as it was before, usual
On Ynys Môn, where the people dream in Welsh
Move slowly, maintain the dignity of the Celt.
In nooks and crannies and all along the languorous lanes of this island of the wise
Old men tell still how the Welsh resisted Rome
And still resist the Saesneg, with their loud voices
And caravans and with all their brash denial
Of those who lie beneath gravestones carved in Welsh
And of the towering cliffs of the north coast
And the swirling Irish Sea with seagulls
Swooping with their ageless haunting cries.
Hwyl fawr fy nghariad hwyl fawr
Goodbye my love, goodbye.