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Poem (May 1853) by Dewi Elfed Jones

Udgorn Seion, 1853 (Vol

Udgorn Seion, 1853 (Vol. 5):321-24





TUNE—“Belisle March.”


A member.


THERE are horrid sad signs,

And grievous events ahead;

The pregnant air is heavy-laden,

And the day of wrath is nigh.

Swift lightning darts, and flame-red shoots,

Thunder roars;

The family of scorn and blasphemy,

Will have no place to hide now;

Who will listen to my plaint? I have not a minute’s pleasure;

The troubles of adversity destroy my life;

Oh what sorrow I bear.

What shall I say when is poured upon me,

The heaviest sad shower,

For opposing, and refusing to believe

The Gospel of Jesus Christ?

It’s time for me to wake up, and avoid the judgment;

There is no refuge for me, nor day of saving,

Deliverance though I apply myself:

Willed religion destroys me daily,

Restless as the plague:

Oh, from it I flee, I run for life,

To the Saints’ pure religion.


A Reverend.


Hark, man, slow down; what is this gnawing,

And this tiresome inflammation?

Was it the wicked Saints, the wanton host,

That wounded your breast?

Believe only that, you false prophets,

The old family of the great utter darkness,

And leave for the vile of Mormon’s ugly clan,

The grey sweepings of the ground:

There are pleasant omens of delight night and day,

There are blind watchmen on Zion’s towers,

A great brightening will come.

Oh children of darkness, do not lose heart,

Peace is increasing;

In a secure state you await,

Summer is approaching.

The strong plays his part to uphold the weak man’s burden,

Superstition’s day is improving daily,

Soon you will be left in peace:

In the charming name of my imaginary God,

I say with brotherly intent,


[p. 322]


Despite the Saints, in the river of death,

You shall drown all your faults.


A Member.


Neither the threats nor the promises

Of the weak false teachers have

Any charm for my woe, that can cleanse my life,

Nor grace for me to obtain;

And their theology does not minister

Any beneficial medicine,

The fraud and carnage of Reverend dignity,

Hinder my recovery.

Though promising fine health, I’m in a nest of thorns,

As if among dragons full of stings,

And their dire tearing;

Though shouting freedom, I’m in adversity,

And will ever live in woe;

Though shouting refuge, I’ll go to Gehenna,

If I stay where I am.

The commerce of great hell, is killing earth’s inhabitants,

And there is outrage, woe, and groaning,

Now with no comfort;

The Reverends, like vexing wolves.

Are preying greedily,

In the guise of mercy for my life,

Even so it turns to death.


A Reverend.


Oh! you feeble-minded, pitiable, unclean wretch,

Your day is comfortless,

Your head is spinning from loathsome creed,

Fleeing to disown the faith.

The old unruly faith, the godly sects,

Enticing partisan gift,

Which puts scores into tight chains,

Morning and afternoon.

The old faith of Mormon, which challenges the four winds,

It must be that which has confused you,

And charmed you on its way.

Despite ugly butchery, the killing, and the rending,

There’s no way to damage it,

Its awful strengths now are shaking,

Nearly all the world’s powers.

The world is boiling hot, like the mouth of sheer hell;

Woe and fright follow on the heels

Of the dullard and the wise:

By Baal and Dagon, now must be stopped,

The old religion of great Mormon;

Deliver me from it, it has plagued me,

And entirely brought me down.


[p. 323


A Vicar.


Oh, fie, reverend, what a weak and infirm,

And irritable one is your cry;

We priests are sorry that the Mormons,

See our deceit and treachery.

I’ll staunchly fire paper bullets

Through the fortress of their rampart;

With my rush sword I’ll put an end,

To their fate forthwith;

With my strong arm now, as weighty as a great feather,

I’ll pursue the Saints, children of Heaven,

And drive like some giant;

Through the power of Our Father and the Common Prayer,

I shall be the Vicar,

With my thin palms in the mighty sides

Of the Saints night and day:

To the beast I’ll give a share of the product of my weak soul,

To the god of the darkness the banner can rise

As high as the church bell-tower.

In pain and anguish the Vicar of Merthyr,

Has a headache which persists;

Like a clumsy boar I shall once more,

Root around Aberdare.


A Saint.


The Reverends, the silly Vicars,

The blind teachers are

Groaning aloud, shouting in pain,

From Liverpool to Cardiff,

From Aberdare to Aberdaron,

From Anglesey to Abergavenny,

For the blood of the innocents; these ineffective ones

Wish to destroy the servants of God;

The days are coming when false Babel will be seen

Chirping like baby birds,

Soon it will languish;

The day of tribulation will come—woe is the crown of pride,

And the sons of wicked oppression,

Will be completely overthrown, trodden like a dung-heap,

And swallowed in the dust.

The stone that was hewn from the mountain, not by hand,

The day of its movement is in its beginning,

Shattering is nigh;

The cruel host will be like withered stubble,

Or charred sticks from the fire;

The proud will be trampled, and the idols crushed,

And smashed to smithereens.


[p. 324]


And behold, now in mount Zion,

The refuge of the men of God,

There will be deliverance and abundant salvation

For all who love to live;

When plagues come and horrid pestilence,

And famine, present marks,

The Saints while sheltering will prosper,

In the day of the great tempest.

To the beast of evil terror, and his family great and small,

Like withered firewood across the fields,

Jacob’s house will be the fire;—

To all the kingdoms of the nations,

Who publicly do wrong,

Like meadow gossamer, and mountain sweepings,

Joseph’s house will be a flame;

Henceforth the Saints’ light, will increase to a great size;

The redeemed will be on mount Zion,

Far from pain and disease;

Banners of freedom will also wave,

Throughout the whole wide world,

The voice of song and praise will loudly sound,

In joy across the earth.

Llanelli. DEWI ELFED.



Jones, David Bevan


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