Gelert, Llewelyn's Dog

The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach and many a hound Attend Llewelyn's horn.	He called his child - no voice replied! He searched with terror wild. Blood, blood he found on every side But nowhere found his child.
And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer - Come Gelertl Why art thou the last Llewelyn's horn to hear?	Hell bound! My child's by thee devoured The frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side.
Oh where does faithful Gelert roam? The flower of all his race So true, so brave, a lamb at home A lion in the chase.	His suppliant look, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart, But still his Gelert's dying yell Past heavy o'er his heart.
'Twas only at Liewelyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.	Aroused by Gelert's dying yell Some slumberer wakened nigh. What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant cry.
In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of Royal John - But now no Gelert could be found, And all the chase rode on.	Concealed beneath a mangled heap His hurried search had missed. All glowing from his rosy sleep His cherub boy he kissed.
And now as over rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells With many mingled cries.	Nor scratch had he, nor harm nor dread But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead Tremendous still in death.
That day Llewelyn little Ioved The chase of hart or hare. And scant and small the booty proved- For Gelert was not there.	Ah! What was then Llewelyn's pain For now the truth was clear. The gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewelyn's heir.
Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied, When near the portal seat His truant, Gelert, he espíed Bounding his Lord to greet.	Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue!
But when he gained his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood. The hound all o'er was smeared with gore, His lips, his fangs, ran blood.	And now a gallant tomb they rise With costly sculpture decked And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Llewelyn gazed with wild surprise: Unused such looks to meet, His favourite checked his joyful guise And crouched, and licked his feet.	Here never could a spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
Onward in haste Llewelyn passed- And on went Gelert, too - And still where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.	And here he hung his horn and spear And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would bear Poor Gelert's dying yell.
O'ertumed his infant's bed he found The blood-stained covert rent, And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.	Poem written by Hon. W.R. Spencer, immortalising the saga of Gelerd, Irish Wolfdog of Llewelyn, Prince of Wales (1210 AD)

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