Men of Harlech edo The March of the Men of Harlech, galeserazRhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech (euskarazHarlechko Gizonak edo Harlechko Gizonen Martxa) galestar abesti ospetsua da, galestarrek oso barneratua dutelarik. Usadioz abesti edo martxa militar bat da, 1461 eta 1468 urteen artean Harlech gazteluan emandako gertakariak deskribatzen ditu. Bere doinua militar martxa bat izaki indartsu eta kementsua da, gogoa eta animoak pizten dituen horietakoa.
Sarritan "Men of Harlech" edo "Rhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech" Galesko ereserkia nazionaltzat jo izan da, baina hau guztiz okerra da. Galesko ereserkia nazionala "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau" (euskaraz, "Nire Arbasoen Lurra"). Halere gaur egun ere "Men of Harlech" edo "Rhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech" abestiak sekulako arrakasta eta ospea du galestar kultura eta musikan, abesti hau entzun orduko anglosaxoi munduko jendeak Galesekin lotzen baitu. Galestarrez osatutako gudaroste eta konpainia askok abestu ohi izan dute, hasi Britainia Handiko Gudarostetik eta Kanadakoa arte.
Hitzak
Abesti honen hitzek bertsio bat baino gehiago izan dituzte, hona ingelesez izandako ohikoena:
John Oxenforden bertsioa
1go Bertsoa
Men of Harlech, march to glory,
Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,
Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye,
Hear ye not her call?
At your sloth she seems to wonder;
Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,
Let the war-cry's deaf'ning thunder
Every foe appall.
Echoes loudly waking,
Hill and valley shaking;
'Till the sound spreads wide around,
The Saxon's courage breaking;
Your foes on every side assailing,
Forward press with heart unfailing,
'Till invaders learn with quailing,
Cambria ne'er can yield!
2go Bertsoa
Thou, who noble Cambria wrongest,
Know that freedom's cause is strongest,
Freedom's courage lasts the longest,
Ending but with death!
Freedom countless hosts can scatter,
Freedom stoutest mail can shatter,
Freedom thickest walls can batter,
Fate is in her breath.
See, they now are flying!
Dead are heap'd with dying!
Over might hath triumph'd right,
Our land to foes denying;
Upon their soil we never sought them,
Love of conquest hither brought them,
But this lesson we have taught them,
"Cambria ne'er can yield!"
"Talhaiarn" bertsioa
1go Bertsoa
Glyndŵr, see thy comet flaming,
Hear a heavenly voice declaiming,
To the world below proclaiming,
Cambria shall be free:
While thy star on high is beaming,
Soldiers from the mountains teeming,
With their spears and lances gleaming,
Come to follow thee.
Hear the trumpet sounding
While the steeds are bounding,
On the gale from hill and dale,
The war-cry is resounding:
Warriors famed in song and story,
Coming from the mountains hoary,
Rushing to the fields of glory,
Eager for the fray:
To the valley wending,
Hearths and homes defending,
With their proud and valiant prince,
From ancient kings descending;
See the mighty host advancing,
Sunbeams on their helmets dancing,
On his gallant charger prancing,
Glyndŵr leads the way.
2go Bertsoa
Now to battle they are going,
Every heart with courage glowing,
Pride and passion overflowing
In the furious strife:
Lo! the din of war enrages,
Vengeance crowns the hate of ages,
Sternly foe with foe engages,
Feeding Death with Life:
Hear the trumpets braying,
And the horses neighing,
Hot the strife while fiery foes
Are one another slaying;
Arrows fly as swift as lightning,
Shout on shout the tumult height'ning,
Conquest's ruddy wing is bright'ning,
Helmet, sword, and shield;
With their lances flashing,
Warriors wild are crashing,
Through the tyrant's serried ranks
Whilst onward they are dashing:
Now the enemy is flying,
Trampling on the dead and dying;
Victory aloft is crying,
"Cambria wins the field!"
Men of Harlech stop your dreaming
Can't you see their spear points gleaming
See their warrior pennants streaming
To this battlefield
Men of Harlech stand ye steady
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready
We'll stand, never yield
From the hills rebounding
Let this war cry sounding
Summon all at Cambria's call
The mighty force surrounding
Men of Harlech on to glory
This will ever be your story
Keep these burning words before ye
Welshmen will not yield
John Guarden bertsioa
1go Bertsoa
Tongues of fire on Idris flaring,
News of foemen near declaring,
To heroic deeds of daring,
Call you, Harlech men.
Groans of wounded peasants dying,
Wails of wives and children flying,
For the distant succour crying,
Call you, Harlech Men.
Shall the voice of wailing,
Now be unavailing,
You to rouse, who never yet
In battle's hour were failing?
This our answer, crowds down pouring,
Swift as winter torrents roaring.
Not in vain the voice imploring
Calls on Harlech men.
2go Bertsioa
Loud the martial pipes are sounding,
Every manly heart is bounding,
As our trusted chief surrounding,
March we, Harlech men.
Short the sleep the foe is taking;
Ere the morrow's morn is breaking,
They shall have a rude awakening,
Roused by Harlech Men.
Mothers, cease your weeping,
Calm may be your sleeping,
You and yours in safety now,
The Harlech men are keeping.
Ere the sun is high in heaven,
They you fear, by panic riven,
Shall, like frightened sheep, be driven,
Far, by Harlech men.
