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Cofia f’ enaid cyn it’ dreulio


Heedless soul of mine, bethink thee

Ere thine hours on earth are past,—

Ere thou fly to spirit-regions,

If thou real treasure hast.

Where will be thine endless dwelling?

Where thine everlasting home?

What thy portion, joy or mourning,

In the world beyond the tomb?

When these eyes shall lose their lustre,—

Fading with the failing breath,

And roll, lightless, in the conflict,

With inexorable Death;

How wilt thou survive the anguish—

How sustain all earthly loss,

If thou know not the Redeemer,

If thou cling not to his cross?

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