Evan Jones was born near Dolgelley, September 20th, 1820. He was ordained to the Independent ministry in 1845. Always weakly, he found a pastoral charge too great a strain on his health, and he devoted himself to literary pursuits, but he died Fe, 1852, having in his short life served his country well. His Life and Works were published in 1876, “Hanes Bywyd a Gweithiau Barddonol Ieuan Gwynedd” (Hughes & Son, Wrexham).

The Cottages of Wales.

Fair cottages of Cymru, with walls of gleaming white,
Whose smoke curls round the valley and up the mountain height;
The bees hum ’neath the gable or sheltering garden wall,
While all around grow flowers, red rose and lily tall.

Oh lowly cots of Cymru, blest, yea, thrice blest are ye!
Ye know not this world’s greatness nor earthly dignity;
Yet dwell within you ever, the love and peaceful rest
Which fly from hall and palace of those the world holds blest.

Oh lovely cots of Cymru, that smile beside the rill,
Your rooms the children gladden, as flowers your gardens fill;
Their eyes are bright and sparkling, like water in the sun,
Their cheeks are like the roses, red rose and white in one.

Grey cottages of Cymru, that nestle ’mid the leaves,
No marble walls surround you, straw thatched your lowly eaves,
Yet thither many an angel in love delights to come,
And watch in joy and gladness the heirs of his bright home.

O quiet cots of Cymru, far from the city’s din,
Your peace no tumult troubles, no discord enters in;
No sound breaks on your stillness but merry children’s cry,
Or murmur of the rustling leaves or brook that babbles by.

O pleasant cots of Cymru, within, at dawn’s first rays,
As in the wood around them, are heard glad hymns of praise,
And early in the morning the birds and goodwife sing
Their matin song of gratitude to God, their Lord and King.

Dear cottages of Cymru, what country holds their peer?
Long may they stand unshaken, nor ill their hearths draw near!
God keep, as fair and fragrant as on the hills and dales
The flowers which smile and blossom, the cottages of Wales.

Go and Dig a Grave for me.

Go and dig a grave for me,
This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest
Save within the grave’s cold breast.

Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life’s dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast
Save the staff whereon I rest.

Go and dig a grave for me,
’Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make
Mournful music over me.
Oh how pleasant ’twill be there
For the weak, lone wanderer!

Go and dig a grave for me,
For my journey’s nearly o’er;
Of life’s sweets I’ve freely drunk,
Of its wormwood even more.
Now to earth farewell I cry
Weak and faint, I long to die.

Go and dig a grave for me
All life’s pleasures now are past;
Memories of the joys that were
Darker shadows round me cast.
Through death’s portals I will fly
Far to peaceful worlds on high.

Go and dig a grave for me,
Though my dwelling will be dark;
Needs not for this mortal frame
Stone or sign its place to mark.
There ’twill rest till stars shall fall
At the last great trumpet call.

Go and dig a grave for me,
Broken is my life’s frail thread;
Hasten, dig for me a grave,
Draweth near the stranger dread.
Low, ay low my head be bent,
Till the heavens in twain are rent.

Go and dig a grave for me,
I can stay no longer here,
Fare you well my weak heart faints
’Neath the dark king’s fatal spear.
I am ready for the grave
Christ receive me, help and save!