Ancient Wales keeps Advent

The three did merrily pass this way,

through my Clwydian range;
led by a trust in starlit ray,
seeking the dawn of endless day
through foreign lands diverse and strange.

“Not here,” said I, through gully and coast;

“Not here,” by Holywell town.
“Depart my plains; pass through my rains;
go from my heaped-up slate terrains,
that losing you may be my crown.”

Delighted at my silvery voice

they left my broken shore
to keep in view bright wisdom’s choice
and in an unfound hope rejoice,
till God revealed more.

To you, the pilgrims of this age,

who now enjoy my paths and wiles,
I show the footprints of the sages,
marked in the mud of my border’s pages,
and repeat their holy trials.