Welsh Death Quotes

By definition, you have to live until you die. Better to make that life as complete and enjoyable an experience as possible, in case death is shite, which I suspect it will be.

The Earl of Lancaster loudly spoke, “Piers Gaveston, this court finds you guilty of treason, of sodomy and sedition as well as many other crimes against God! You shall be taken to Blacklow Hill, which shall by your place of execution, and you shall be put to death by two of my Welsh soldiers! May God have mercy upon your soul!

People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid.

He emphasised basic truths: you are not dying yet, you have to live your life until you are. Underpinning them was the belief that the grim reality of impending death can be talked away by trying to invest in the present reality of life. I didn’t believe that at the time, but now I do. By definition, you have to live until you die. Better to make that life as complete and enjoyable an experience as possible, in case death is shite, which I suspect it will be.

Ah realise now thit death is usually a process, rather than an event. People generally die by degrees, incrementally. They rot away slowly in homes and hoespitals, or places like this.

The dead man is on the trolley and the woman collapses across his chest. That's what the ghouls want a shufti at, like at that Princess Diana's funeral, they want to scrutinise those who really knew her, to drink the misery out of their faces.

Lieutenant Welsh remembered walking around among the sleeping men, and thinking to himself that 'they had looked at and smelled death all around them all day but never even dreamed of applying the term to themselves. They hadn't come here to fear. They hadn't come to die. They had come to win.

Begbie doesnae even notice; he's in his element, particularly good at funerals in the way a lot ay psychopaths tend tae be. Ah suppose if bringing death and despair is yir life's work, then being somewhere like this must feel like a result; the job's already done and you can just kick back and relax.

And all those boys of Europe born in those times, and thereabouts those times, Russian, French, Belgian, Serbian, Irish, English, Scottish, Welsh, Italian, Prussian, German, Austrian, Turkish – and Canadian, Australian, American, Zulu, Gurkha, Cossack, and all the rest – their fate was written in a ferocious chapter in the book of life, certainly. Those millions of mothers and their million gallons of mother’s milk, millions of instances of small talk and baby talk, beatings and kisses, ganseys and shoes, piled up in history in great ruined heaps, with a loud and broken music, human stories told for nothing, for ashes, for death’s amusement, flung on the mighty scrapheap of souls, all those million boys in all their humours to be milled by the millstones of a coming war.

Underpinning them was the belief that the grim reality of impending death can be talked away by trying to invest in the present reality of life.

He looked upon this verdant, blossoming spring, a spring Joanna would never see, he looked upon a field of brilliant blue flowers- the bluebells Joanna had so loved- and at that moment he'd willingly have bartered all his tomorrows for but one yesterday.

Passion is a rare flower that grows on the precipice of death. A few snatch it, and the rest are like an ox chewing its cud in a field.

I couldn't work out what she actually wanted. Whether being dead happened in a pretty box on Welsh Street or someplace else, it didn't make a difference. Dead was irreversible. It was permanent. You couldn't do anything about it, and still, Tate seemed determined to take it back, like with the right answer, she could fix everything.

The day that he accused a reigning King of murder was the day he signed his own death warrant, and he knew it.

-- HOUSE! That's-you-Mark. He's-goat-hoose. OWER-HERE! Wis-nae-eve-in-gaunn-ae-shout-oot. Cu-moan-son. Git-a-fu-kin-grip-ay-yir-sel. Ah smile benignly at Jocky, all the time wishing a prompt and violent death oan the nosey cunt.

The physical suffering of the disease and its aspect of evil mystery were expressed in a strange Welsh lament which saw “death coming into our midst like black smoke, a plague which cuts off the young, a rootless phantom which has no mercy for fair countenance. Woe is me of the shilling in the armpit! It is seething, terrible … a head that gives pain and causes a loud cry … a painful angry knob … Great is its seething like a burning cinder … a grievous thing of ashy color.” Its eruption is ugly like the “seeds of black peas, broken fragments of brittle sea-coal … the early ornaments of black death, cinders of the peelings of the cockle weed, a mixed multitude, a black plague like halfpence, like berries.…

Dr. Fauci, Bill Gates, and WHO financed a cadre of research mercenaries to concoct a series of nearly twenty studies—all employing fraudulent protocols deliberately designed to discredit HCQ as unsafe. Instead of using the standard treatment dose of 400 mg/day, the 17 WHO studies administered a borderline lethal daily dose starting with 2,400 mg.61 on Day 1, and using 800 mg/day thereafter. In a cynical, sinister, and literally homicidal crusade against HCQ, a team of BMGF operatives played a key role in devising and pushing through the exceptionally high dosing. They made sure that UK government “Recovery” trials on 1,000 elderly patients in over a dozen British, Welsh, Irish and Scottish hospitals, and the U.N. “Solidarity” study of 3,500 patients in 400 hospitals in 35 countries, as well as additional sites in 13 countries (the “REMAP-COVID” trial), all used those unprecedented and dangerous doses.62 This was a brassy enterprise to “prove” chloroquine dangerous, and sure enough, it proved that elderly patients can die from deadly overdoses. “The purpose seemed, very clearly, to poison the patients and blame the deaths on HCQ,” says Dr. Meryl Nass, a physician, medical historian, and biowarfare expert.

whose death bore similarities to the unsolved disappearance of the singer from the Welsh band the Manic Street Preachers.

Amongst the spoils that Brutus had taken from Greece was Ignoge, the daughter of Pandrasus, whom he wedded and who was to bear him three sons, Locrinus, Kamber and Albanactus. Upon the death of Brutus, Kamber and Albanactus inherited Wales (Cambria) and Scotland (Albany) respectively, and Locrinus became king of Loegria, the land named after him, which consisted of present-day England minus Cornwall. (The modern Welsh still know England as Loegria).

Three further specific items in both the Welsh chronicle and Geoffrey's Latin account reveal the sometimes garbled nature of the British intelligence reports of the time that were sent over long distances, in two cases from the other side of the Channel, and the natural confusion that arose over the debriefing of warriors that returned from the front line of battle and the subsequent interviewing of eyewitnesses. The first concerns the death of a certain Roman officer. He was named as Laberius (Quintus Laberius Durus) in Caesar's account, according to which Laberius died in action during the second campaign in Britain of the year 54 BC.8 The British account, however, states that Laberius was killed during the first campaign, and, more tellingly, it identifies the soldier concerned as Labienus (Welsh Alibiens).9

This was the wretched end of Mary Parsons’s arduous journey from the Welsh Marches to the American wilderness; through two abusive marriages, the loss of two babies and a twisted thicket of delusion, resentment and remorse. At the hour of her death, perhaps she saw heaven, or the figure of Mr. Wroth, the good shepherd of Llanvaches, pointing that way. He had been the one truly decent man in her life, who faced down approaching demons, spread charity to all and rejoiced in the light of Christ’s love.

An intimate enemy, death, capricious and cruel, ultimately invincible.

These near death escapades didn’t put me off working in violent situations. If trouble happened then I couldn’t stop to think of what might happen. There were some good people about and my job was to protect them from trouble, I couldn’t let past experiences put me off.

Dicing with death is one man’s cup of tea, but another man’s poison. I just didn’t fear anything.

Ed Amies, one of my oldest and closest friends, told my simply that: “So often, God’s callings have a birth, a death, and then a resurrection.” I had had the birth, and had got stuck into Selection; I had had the death, at that fateful dam in the Welsh mountains--now was a logical time for the resurrection. If my faith stood for anything it was this: miracles really can happen.

Ed Amies, one of my oldest and closest friends, told my simply that: “So often, God’s callings have a birth, a death, and then a resurrection.” I had had the birth, and had got stuck into Selection; I had had the death, at that fateful dam in the Welsh mountains--now was a logical time for the resurrection. If my faith stood for anything it was this: miracles really can happen. So I made the decision to try again. This time, though, I would be doing this alone. I knew that support from my family and friends would be much less forthcoming, especially from Mum, who could see the physical toll that just four months had taken. But I felt deadly serious about passing this properly now and I somehow knew that it was my last chance to do it. And no one was going to do it for me. Some two weeks later I listened to a mumbled message on my answering machine from Trucker. He’d got lost on the final part of a march. After hours of wandering aimlessly in the dark, and out of time, he had finally been found by a DS in a Land Rover, out to look for stray recruits. Trucker was dejected and tired. He, too, had failed the course. He went through the same struggle over the next few weeks that I had, and like me, he was invited by the squadron to try again. We were the only two guys to have been asked back. With greater resolve than ever, we both threw ourselves into training with an intensity that we had never done before. This time we meant business. We both moved into an old, secluded, rented farm cottage some six miles out of Bristol. And, Rocky-style, we started to train. The next Selection course (of which two are run annually) was just about to start. And just like in Groundhog Day, we found ourselves back in that old dusty gymnasium at the squadron barracks, being run ragged by the DS.

St. Aubyn, who reveals himself to be an inspired parodist, gives us passages, for example, from wot u starin at, a knockoff of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting : “Death Boy’s trousers were round his ankies. The only vein in his body that hadna been driven into hiding was in his cock. “I told yuz nivir ivir to talk to uz when Aym trackin a vein,” snarled Death Boy. “That way I needna fucking talk ta ya at all,” said Wanker, slumped in the corner, weirdly fascinated by the sour stench of his own vomit, rising off of his soiled Iggy Pop tee-shirt.

In the distance, steel-blue mountains loomed heavy on the horizon, their shoulders burdened with the same accursed snow the gods were currently depositing upon the lowlands. Between us and the mountains, the vast expanse of one of the innumerable caravan sites littering the Welsh shores was dimly visible, and at the far edges of the sands, grey waves tipped a mulch of brown foam up on to the beach, a sudden deposition of wishy-washy creatures that seemed to spider-leg over each other in their haste to reach the shore and see what all the fuss was about. But even these creatures comprised of sea-foam were freaked out by the death-stare, for the little critters swiftly dissipated under the force of a skeletal glower. A skull lay in the sand, its empty sockets staring down the beach at the retreating surge. Their fear wouldn’t last long. Soon they’d realise the skeleton had not engaged in pursuit, their confidence would grow, and they’d encroach, further and further up the bank. Eventually, they’d be close enough to see it was completely inert, and would overrun our position, victoriously sweeping up their fallen foe and dragging it back out with them into the dreary waves.

God will leave you when you come to die? I must tell you that story of the good Welsh lady, who, when she lay dying, was visited by her minister. He said to her, “Sister, are you sinking?” She answered him not a word, but looked at him with a suspicious eye. He repeated the question, “Sister, are you sinking?” She looked at him again, as if she could not believe he would ask such a question. At last, rising a little in the bed, she said, “Sinking! Sinking! Did you ever know a sinner sink through a rock? If I had been standing on the sand, I might sink; but, thank God, I am on the Rock of Ages, and there is no sinking there.” How glorious to die! Oh angels come! Oh, legions of the Lord of hosts, stretch, stretch your broad wings and lift us up from earth. Oh, winged seraphs, lift us far above the reach of these inferior things. But until you come, I will sing, “Since Jesus is mine, I’ll not fear undressing-- But gladly put off these garments of clay, To die in the Lord is covenant blessing; Since Jesus to glory, through death led the way.

Lively is the steed, easy the path, Bare the darkness, joyless the road. I go after those that have gone." From The Prophecy of Myrddin and Gwenddydd, His Sister

Death was so uncompromisingly final; such a cruel ending of dreams, opportunities, learning, and love. Screwing his eyes shut, he fought to keep a grip on his emotions. The words of the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, came to him: ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.

The Gwrach-y-Rhybin (hag of the mist) was a hideous fairy hag who lived in Wales and haunted certain old aristocratic Welsh families. She was also said to haunt Pennard Castle and the banks of the river Dribble. The Gwrach-y-Rhybin was described as being winged, with matted black hair, overlong arms, black teeth and a hooked nose. She was said to flap her wings against the window at night and howl the name of the person who will die.lxxxviii She also had another form, when she was called the yr Hen Chrwchwd (old hump-backed one), in which she appeared as a shrieking old woman, whose cries presaged the death of a local person.lxxxix

Nennius tells us, what Gildas omits, the name of the British soldier who won the crowning mercy of Mount Badon, and that name takes us out of the mist of dimly remembered history into the daylight of romance. There looms, large, uncertain, dim but glittering, the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Somewhere in the Island a great captain gathered the forces of Roman Britain and fought the barbarian invaders to the death. Around him, around his name and his deeds, shine all that romance and poetry can bestow. Twelve battles, all located in scenes untraceable, with foes unknown, except that they were heathen, are punctiliously set forth in the Latin of Nennius. Other authorities say, “No Arthur; at least, no proof of any Arthur.” It was only when Geoffrey of Monmouth six hundred years later was praising the splendours of feudalism and martial aristocracy that chivalry, honour, the Christian faith, knights in steel and ladies bewitching, are enshrined in a glorious circle lit by victory. Later these tales would be retold and embellished by the genius of Mallory, Spenser, and Tennyson. True or false, they have gained an immortal hold upon the thoughts of men. It is difficult to believe it was all an invention of a Welsh writer. If it was he must have been a marvellous inventor. Modern research has not accepted the annihilation of Arthur. Timidly but resolutely the latest and best-informed writers unite to proclaim his reality. They cannot tell when in this dark period he lived, or where he held sway and fought his battles. They are ready to believe however that there was a great British warrior, who kept the light of civilisation burning against all the storms that beat, and that behind his sword there sheltered a faithful following of which the memory did not fail. All four groups of the Celtic tribes which dwelt in the tilted uplands of Britain cheered themselves with the Arthurian legend, and each claimed their own region as the scene of his exploits. From Cornwall to Cumberland a search for Arthur’s realm or sphere has been pursued.The reserve of modern assertions is sometimes pushed to extremes, in which the fear of being contradicted leads the writer to strip himself of almost all sense and meaning. One specimen of this method will suffice: "It is reasonably certain that a petty chieftain named Arthur did exist, probably in South Wales. It is possible that he may have held some military command uniting the tribal forces of the Celtic or highland zone or part of it against raiders and invaders (not all of them necessarily Teutonic). It is also possible that he may have engaged in all or some of the battles attributed to him; on the other hand, this attribution may belong to a later date." This is not much to show after so much toil and learning. Nonetheless, to have established a basis of fact for the story of Arthur is a service which should be respected. In this account we prefer to believe that the story with which Geoffrey delighted the fiction-loving Europe of the twelfth century is not all fancy. If we could see exactly what happened we should find ourselves in the presence of a theme as well founded, as inspired, and as inalienable from the inheritance of mankind as the Odyssey or the Old Testament. It is all true, or it ought to be; and more and better besides. And wherever men are fighting against barbarism, tyranny, and massacre, for freedom, law, and honour, let them remember that the fame of their deeds, even though they themselves be exterminated, may perhaps be celebrated as long as the world rolls round. Let us then declare that King Arthur and his noble knights, guarding the Sacred Flame of Christianity and the theme of a world order, sustained by valour, physical strength, and good horses and armour, slaughtered innumerable hosts of foul barbarians and set decent folk an example for all time.

quiet for a sunny London afternoon. He said, ‘It’s too quiet.

The Underground Railroad has several stations in the [Welsh] Mountains, and secrecy was not just a buzzword, as breaking the code of silence could mean death. The justice meted out in the Mountains was sure and swift, making it different from that in the surrounding community. The laws were meant to protect the security of the community, and not just the individual person.

Did something happen during Mr. Winterborne’s visit? Something besides discussing the wedding?” Helen responded with a miniscule nod, her jaw trembling. Kathleen’s thoughts whirled as she wondered how to help Helen, who seemed on the verge of falling apart. She hadn’t seen her this undone since Theo’s death. “I wish you would tell me,” she said. “My imagination is running amok. What did Winterborne do to make you so unhappy?” “I can’t say,” Helen whispered. Kathleen tried to keep her voice calm. “Did he force himself on you?” A long silence followed. “I don’t know,” Helen said in a sodden voice. “He wanted…I don’t know what he wanted. I’ve never--” She stopped and blew her nose into the handkerchief. “Did he hurt you?” Kathleen forced herself to ask. “No. But he kept kissing me and wouldn’t stop, and…I didn’t like it. It wasn’t at all what I thought kissing would be. And he put his hand…somewhere he shouldn’t. When I pushed him way, he looked angry and said something sharp that sounded like…I thought I was too good for him. He said other things as well, but there was too much Welsh mixed in. I didn’t know what to do. I started to cry, and he left without another word.” She gave a few hiccupping sobs. “I don’t understand what I did wrong.” “You did nothing wrong.” “But I did, I must have.” Helen lifted her thin fingers to her temples, pressing lightly over the cloth that covered them. Winterborne, you ham-handed sod, Kathleen thought furiously. Is it really so difficult for you to be gentle with a shy young woman, the first time you kiss her? “Obviously he has no idea how to behave with an innocent girl,” she said quietly. “Please don’t tell anyone. I would die. Please promise.” “I promise.” “I must make Mr. Winterborne understand that I didn’t mean to make him angry--” “Of course you didn’t. He should know that.” Kathleen hesitated. “Before you proceed with the wedding plans, perhaps we should take some time to reconsider the engagement.” “I don’t know.” Helen winced and gasped. “My head is throbbing. Right now I feel as if I never want to see him again.

When Ronan had been smaller and more forgiving of miracles, he’d considered the moment of death with rhapsodic delight. His mother had told him that when you looked into the eyes of God at the pearly gates, all the questions you ever had were answered. Ronan had a lot of questions. Waking Glendower might be like that. Fewer angels attending, and maybe a heavier Welsh accent. Slightly less judgment.

As the unreality of Hollywood only made him aware of his agitation and hollowness, he was drawn back sentimentally to his birth place, or tot he idea of his birthplace, and he drank himself to death when he saw only wasted opportunities: 'I loved my silly image as the besotted Welsh genius, dying in his own vomit in the gutter,' he said unconvincingly.