(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. |