(IN IMITATION OF A FAVOURITE WELSH MEASURE.)

2,8,8,8,8,8

Sweet, sweet,

It is with thine, my God, to meet,

And lay our burdens at Thy feet:

False passion's heat from thence departs;

Our weary hearts before Thee rest,

And by thee blessed forget their smarts.

Far, far,

From me my comrades in the war,

And this doth much my courage mar:

Haste in thy car of strength, O Lord!

With thine own sword my foes confound:

Then all the year round I'll trust thy word.