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dylan thomas - this is llareggub hill كلمات الأغنية

[one distant bell-note, faintly reverberating]

first voice stand on this hill. this is llaregyb hill, old as the hills, high, cool, and green, and from this small circle, of stones, made not by druids but by mrs beynon’s billy, you can see all the town below you sleeping in the first of the dawn.

you can hear the love-sick woodpigeons mooning in bed. a dog barks in his sleep, farmyards away. the town ripples like a lake in the waking haze.

voice of a guide-book less than five hundred souls inhabit the three quaint streets and the few narrow by-lanes and scattered farmsteads that const-tute this small, decaying watering-place which may, indeed, be called a ‘backwater of life’ without disrespect to its natives who possess, to this day, a salty individuality of their own. the main street, coronation street, consists, for the most part, of humble, two-storied houses many of which attempt to achieve some measure of gaiety by prinking themselves out in crude colours and by the liberal use of pinkwash, though there are remaining a few eighteenth-century houses of more pretension, if, on the whole, in a sad state of disrepair. though there is little to attract the hillclimber, the healthseeker, the sportsman, or the weekending motorist, the contemplative may, if sufficiently attracted to spare it some leisurely hours, find, in its cobbled streets and its little fishing harbour, in its several curious customs, and in the conversation of its local ‘characters,’ some of that picturesque sense of the past so frequently lacking in towns and villages which have kept more abreast of the times. the river dewi is said to abound in trout, but is much poached. the one place of worship, with its neglected graveyard, is of no architectural interest.

[a c-ck crows]

first voice the princ-p-lity of the sky lightens now, over our green hill, into spring morning larked and crowed and belling.

[slow bell notes]

first voice who pulls the townhall bellrope but blind captain cat? one by one, the sleepers are rung out of sleep this one morning as every morning. and soon you shall see the chimneys’ slow upflying snow as captain cat, in sailor’s cap and seaboots, announces to-day with his loud get-out-of-bed bell.

second voice the reverend eli jenkins, in bethesda house, gropes out of bed into his preacher’s black, combs back his bard’s white hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the front door, stands in the doorway and, looking out at the day and up at the eternal hill, and hearing the sea break and the gab of birds, remembers his own verses and tells them softly to empty coronation street that is rising and raising its blinds.

rev. eli jenkins dear gwalia! i know there are towns lovelier than ours, and fairer hills and loftier far, and groves more full of flowers,

and boskier woods more blithe with spring and bright with birds’ adorning, and sweeter bards than i to sing their praise this beauteous morning.

by cader idris, tempest-torn, or moel yr wyddfa’s glory, carnedd llewelyn beauty born, plinlimmon old in story,

by mountains where king arthur dreams, by penmaenmawr defiant, llaregyb hill a molehill seems, a pygmy to a giant.

by sawdde, senny, dovey, dee, edw, eden, aled, all, taff and towy broad and free, llyfnant with its waterfall,

claerwen, cleddau, dulais, daw, ely, gwili, ogwr, nedd, small is our river dewi, lord, a baby on a rushy bed.

by carreg cennen, king of time, our heron head is only a bit of stone with seaweed spread where gulls come to be lonely.

a tiny dingle is milk wood by golden grove ‘neath grongar, but let me choose and oh! i should love all my life and longer

to stroll among our trees and stray in goosegog lane, on donkey down, and hear the dewi sing all day, and never, never leave the town.

second voice the reverend jenkins closes the front door. his morning service is over.

[slow bell notes]

first voice now, woken at last by the out-of-bed-sleepy-head-polly-put- the-kettle-on townhall bell, lily smalls, mrs beynon’s treasure, comes downstairs from a dream of royalty who all night long went larking with her full of sauce in the milk wood dark, and puts the kettle on the primus ring in mrs beynon’s kitchen, and looks at herself in mr beynon’s shaving-gl-ss over the sink, and sees:

lily smalls oh there’s a face! where you get that hair from? got it from a old tom cat. give it back then, love. oh there’s a perm!

where you get that nose from, lily? got it from my father, silly. you’ve got it on upside down! oh there’s a conk!

look at your complexion! oh no, you look. needs a bit of make-up. needs a veil. oh there’s glamour!

where you get that smile, lil? never you mind, girl. n-body loves you. that’s what you think.

who is it loves you? shan’t tell. come on, lily. cross your heart then? cross my heart.

first voice and very softly, her lips almost touching her reflection, she breathes the name and clouds the shaving-gl-ss.

mrs beynon (loudly, from above) lily!

lily smalls (loudly) yes, mum.

mrs beynon where’s my tea, girl?

lily smalls (softly) where d’you think? in the cat-box?

(loudly) coming up, mum.

first voice mr pugh, in the school house opposite, takes up the morning tea to mrs pugh, and whispers on the stairs

mr. pugh here’s your -rs-nic, dear. and your weedkiller biscuit. i’ve throttled your parakeet. i’ve spat in the vases. i’ve put cheese in the mouseholes. here’s your… [door creaks open] …nice tea, dear.

mrs pugh too much sugar.

mr pugh you haven’t tasted it yet, dear.

mrs pugh too much milk, then. has mr jenkins said his poetry?

mr pugh yes, dear.

mrs pugh then it’s time to get up. give me my gl-sses.

no, not my reading gl-sses, i want to look out. i want to see

second voice lily smalls the treasure down on her red knees washing the front step.

mrs pugh she’s tucked her dress in her bloomers–oh, the baggage!

second voice p.c. attila rees, ox-broad, barge-booted, stamping out of handcuff house in a heavy beef-red huff, black browed under his damp helmet…

mrs pugh he’s going to arrest polly garter, mark my words,

mr pugh what for, dear?

mrs pugh for having babies.

second voice …and lumbering down towards the strand to see that the sea is still there.

first voice mary ann sailors, opening her bedroom window above the taproom and calling out to the heavens

mary ann sailors i’m eighty-five years three months and a day!

mrs pugh i will say this for her, she never makes a mistake.

first voice organ morgan at his bedroom window playing chords on the sill to the morning fishwife gulls who, heckling over donkey street, observe

dai bread me, dai bread, hurrying to the bakery, pushing in my shirt-tails, b-ttoning my waistcoat, ping goes a b-tton, why can’t they sew them, no time for breakfast, nothing for breakfast, there’s wives for you.

mrs dai bread one me, mrs dai bread one, capped and shawled and no old corset, nice to be comfy, nice to be nice, clogging on the cobbles to stir up a neighbour. oh, mrs sarah, can you spare a loaf, love? dai bread forgot the bread. there’s a lovely morning! how’s your boils this morning? isn’t that good news now, it’s a change to sit down. ta, mrs sarah.

mrs dai bread two me, mrs dai bread two, gypsied to kill in a silky scarlet petticoat above my knees, dirty pretty knees, see my body through my petticoat brown as a berry, high-heel shoes with one heel missing, tortoisesh-ll comb in my bright black slinky hair, nothing else at all but a dab of scent, lolling gaudy at the doorway, tell your fortune in the tea-leaves, scowling at the sunshine, lighting up my pipe.

lord cut-gl-ss me, lord cut-gl-ss, in an old frock-coat belonged to eli jenkins and a pair of postman’s trousers from bethesda jumble, running out of doors to empty slops–mind there, rover!–and then running in again, tick tock.

nogood bo yo me, nogood boyo, up to no good in the wash-house

miss price me, miss price, in my pretty print housecoat, deft at the clothesline, natty as a jenny-wren, then pit-pat back to my egg in its cosy, my crisp toast-fingers, my home-made plum and b-tterpat.

polly garter me, polly garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. nothing grows in our garden, only washing. and babies. and where’s their fathers live, my love? over the hills and far away. you’re looking up at me now. i know what you’re thinking, you poor little milky creature. you’re thinking, you’re no better than you should be, polly, and that’s good enough for me. oh, isn’t life a terrible thing, thank god?

- dylan thomas

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