Bala Town

In Bala town where waters gleam,
Llyn Tegid sighs beneath the dream
Of Snowdon’s shoulders, brown and green,
Where ancient stone and whispers lean.

The railway hums a steady tune,
Through valleys draped in June’s soft plume,
While sheep dot hills in woolly fleece,
And chapel bells release their peace.

The Welsh tongue sings from market square,
A cadence rare beyond compare,
And rugby chants rise loud and bold,
In halls where stories yet are told.

So wanderer, if you seek a place
Where nature’s heart and culture’s grace
Embrace in quiet, steadfast grace,
Come find your home in Bala’s face.