Translated from the Welsh In times like these my life is bitter As God declines beyond the sea, And in his place some king or peasant Raises his gross authority. And when he thought that God was gone Man raised his raging sword of war Against his brother- roaring death Shadowed the hovels of the poor. We hang our harps back on the trees With the old songs left by the slain. The blood of boys is on the wind, Their blood is mingled with the rain.