'Bootless home and weather-beaten back.'

A blowy day today, very autumnal, threatening rain – but it could be worse...
On this date in 1402, on a wild and windswept night, Henry IV, on campaign in Wales 'to chastise the presumptuous attempts of the Welshmen', was nearly killed when his tent collapsed about him. This was just the latest in a succession of assaults on the English by the relentless Welsh weather: 'Never did a gentle air breathe on them, but throughout the whole, rain mixed with snow and hail afflicted them with cold beyond endurance.' Yes, that sounds like Welsh weather – no wonder R.S. Thomas was such a cheery chap. This expedition was Henry's third attempt to crush the rebellion led by Owain Glyndwr (anglicised in Shakespeare to Owen Glendower). As Glendower boasts in Henry IV, Part I:
'Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head
Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye
And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him
Bootless home and weather-beaten back.'
Indeed – but was Glendower making use of magical powers? Holinshed reports that, to escape Henry, 'Owen conveyed himself out of the way, into his known lurking places, and (as was thought) through art of magic, he caused such foul weather of winds, tempest, rain, snow and hail to be raised, for the annoyance of the king's army, that the like had not been heard of.' After this third attempt to subdue the Welsh, Henry gave up and turned for home, but not before 'having caused his people yet to spoil and burn first a great part of the country'. Owain Glyndwr, a fugitive guerrilla heading a band of 'bare-footed rascals of small reputation', was well on his way to becoming a Welsh national hero, and indeed Prince of Wales. 
Let R.S. Thomas have the last word – 

The Rising of Glyndwr

Thunder-browed and shaggy-throated
All the men were there,
And the women with the hair
That is the raven's and the rook's despair.

Winds awoke, and vixen-footed
Firelight prowled the glade;
The stars were hooded and the moon afraid
To vex the darkness with her yellow braid.

Then he spoke, and anger kindled
In each brooding eye;
Swords and spears accused the sky,
The woods resounded with a bitter cry.

Beasts gave tongue and barn-owls hooted,
Every branch grew loud
With the menace of that crowd,
That thronged the dark, huge as a thundercloud.