Glory be to thee Rhiannon And all your comely locks, With face a flushed like apple skins From nights out in the stocks Your skin is weathered orange-brown, Your eyes are ocean blue, Your horse is white like heaven's gate, Your grass a greener hue Let us ride this land together, This land of hills and rains, Until we find the summertime And break old winter's chains Hear these words I pray Rhiannon, For I am seldom seen; A dead king in a peasant skin Is no sight for a queen.