I've no sheep on the mountains
Nor boat on the lake Nor coin in my coffer
To keep me awake Nor corn in my garner,
Nor fruit on my tree Yet the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.

Rich Owen will tell you,
With eyes full of scorn Threadbare is my coat,
And my hosen are torn Scoff on, my rich Owen,
For faint is thy glee When the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly
To market and fair And the clerk at the ale house
Still claims the great chair; But of all our proud fellows,
The proudest I'll be While the maid of Llanwellyn
Smiles sweetly on me.