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.