Llywelyn the Great

Vocals & Creative Concept: Ekaterina Yaremchuk Historic Footprint — History Lives in Music Llywelyn the Great Beneath the clouds of Snowdon high, A red dawn burns across the sky. The harp is calling from the hills, An ancient voice the valley fills. From Gwynedd came a prince of Wales, Where mountain stone meets western gales. Llywelyn stood beneath the crown, No English king could bow him down. The dragon flew above his land, A nation's fate lay in his hand. From northern peaks to southern fields, He swore that Cymru would not yield. Hear the harp, hear Cymru call, One last prince will face them all. Llywelyn, our last prince, stand tall, The dragon rises at your call. From Snowdon's crown to western sea, You held the dream of Cymru free. Llywelyn, under crimson skies, A nation's sorrow never dies. Let every mountain speak your name, Let every valley guard the flame. The English banners crossed the land, King Edward came with sword in hand. The castles rose, the armies came, Yet Wales still carried Llywelyn's name. At Cilmeri, beneath cold rain, The final road became his fate. A prince fell down on Welsh-born ground, And winter silence gathered round. Then the harp became a cry, Beneath a dark December sky. Llywelyn, our last prince, stand tall, The dragon rises at your call. From Snowdon's crown to western sea, You held the dream of Cymru free. Llywelyn, under crimson skies, A nation's sorrow never dies. Let every mountain speak your name, Let every valley guard the flame. A crown may fall, a sword may rust, A castle slowly turn to dust. But songs can live when kings are gone, And Cymru's heart keeps beating on. The harp still sings beside the stone, The mountain wind still calls you home. No royal seal, no golden throne, Could make the spirit theirs to own. Llywelyn, our last prince, arise, Beneath the red and golden skies. From Gwynedd's hills to southern sea, The dragon flies for Cymru free. Llywelyn, let the old bells ring, Let every Welsh-born valley sing. Above the mountains burns your flame, And Cymru still can speak your name. The evening falls on Cilmeri, The harp sings softly by the tree. One final prince, one ancient land, Llywelyn — Cymru's final stand.