Stripe the bitey squirrel meets a sad end after terrorising Welsh town

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  3. Squirrels of Harlech, climb to glory,

    Victory is hanging o’er ye,

    Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye,

    Hear ye not her call?

    At your teeth all cats shall wonder;

    Rend the human foes asunder,

    Let the war-cry’s deaf’ning thunder

    Every foe appall.

    From the treetops chittering,

    Hill and valley shaking;

    ‘Till the sound spreads wide around,

    The Saxon’s courage breaking;

    Dogs on every side assailing,

    Forward press with heart unfailing,

    ‘Till pens’ners learn with quailing,

    Cambria ne’er can yield!

    Thou, who noble Cambria wrongest,

    Know that squirrel wrath is strongest,

    Rodent rage lasts far the longest,

    Ending but with death!

    Sciurids countless hosts can scatter,

    Sciurids stoutest mail can shatter,

    Sciurids highest walls can clamber,

    Fate is in their claws.

    See, they now are flying!

    Dead are heap’d with dying!

    Over height hath triumph’d right,

    Our trees to foes denying;

    Upon their soil we never sought them,

    Love of building hither brought them,

    But this lesson we have taught them,

    “Welsh squirrels ne’er can yield!

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