The brewer stokes a coal fire on a cold and wet winter day.
Where  better to gather and solve the world’s woes,
than that old stone inn by the bay?

A foreigner in circumstance, yet this place says “welcome home”.
We were young in a place of ages past.
Outside the window snowflakes danced,
from a long barren Alder shadows cast.

The heart of poets and Cymric pride belongs to this ancient land
of rolling brooks, hills so green and castles oh so grand.

Yards away a white sea churns as it crashes against the rocks.
White gale warning, sailors mourning, storm clouds forming so black and gray.

Yet here in the inn the hearth is warm,
the bitter smooth, the clock seems naught to tick.
Winter’s blast in that time long past seems as yesterday.

From the kings keep along the hills our quiet village lay.
Cymru I shall ne’er forget that old stone inn by the bay.