The Poetry of Wales Part 12

W.--The only noise that could do that Is your continued rattle.

H.--As sounds a bee upon her back, So does this wasp I've got, And all because I ask'd if she Had fed the pigs or not.

W.--Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse, Yes, ten times worse and more, Still asking, "How this churning gave Less than the one before?"

H.--You know the b.u.t.ter pays our rent, And many another matter.

W.--I know that if the cows are starved They won't get any fatter!

H.--I give the cows enough to eat.

W.--Well do, and hold your clatter.

H.--Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise, 'Twould shame a barrel organ.

W.--If I were half as loud as you, I think it would, Old Morgan!

H.--Your temper, Jane, will drive me soon To share a soldier's lot, To march with gun and martial tune 'Midst powder, smoke, and shot.

W.--What! you a soldier? never, Mog!

Your heart is coward too, You'll fight with no one but with me, You've then enough to do!

H.--I'll go and fight the mighty Czar, To aid the Turkish nation.

W.--Then go, a greater Turk than you Breathes not within creation!

H.--For shame, to call your husband Turk.

W.--Such is my pledg'd relation.

H.--Stop Jane, stop Jane, let's now shake hands And we'll be henceforth friends.

W.--No, not till you have stopp'd will I, Be still, or make amends.

SONG OF THE FOSTER-SON, LOVE.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endued with beauty from above.

To bring him up with fond and _tender_ care-- Was an obligation from my fair.--

And for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake Him to my bosom did I kindly take, Him warmly cherished and with joy caress'd, Like Philomela in the parent breast!

Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup, With food and nurture did I bring him up; He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair, And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!

Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become, Morose, insubordinate and glum, A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain: To strive against the darts of love is vain.

And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow, He points it at me and shoots high and low.

Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee; Where from his darts and wily snares be free?

All fickle is the foster-son, indeed; He leads me on to the flowery mead, When all is peace and harmony around He wrings my ears with doleful sound.

And woe betide if e'er he sees one dare A single word exchange with the fair, He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart, And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.

One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along, A curious thought upon my mind did flash That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.

With this intent I straightway armed myself, My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf; When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke, But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!

I am father to a foster-son Most cruel since this earth began to run: Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said, "The fates may take him, foster'd on my bread."

Then must I live in sorrow evermore No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?

And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart To plant its talons with a fatal dart?

No, there yet will beam a brilliant day To chase these lurid, murky clouds away!

Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away, Blow off thy cares, like ocean's s.h.i.+fting spray.

There is a blus.h.i.+ng rose that blooms unseen In yonder valley decked with leaflets green, 'Twill healthy heart, tho' shatter'd and forlorn, Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.

'Tis there my darling Dora makes her home; 'Tis there my wand'ring glances fondly roam; 'Tis there my star of beauty mildly s.h.i.+nes; 'Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.

'Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells, And sister gentleness the bosom swells, 'Tis there where now the lovely lily grows Beside the purling brook that ever flows.

There's one, and only one to cheer my soul, To heal my anguish, and my grief control; 'Tis she who did the foster-boy impart To nestle deeply in my restless heart.

And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay For time and nurture, anguish and delay, Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see Then must I from her arms for ever flee.

PENNILLION.

[Pennillion singing formed quite a feature in the eisteddfodau of the Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which was quite a Welsh inst.i.tution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in use except at eisteddfodau.]

Many an apple will you find In hue and bloom so cheating, That, search what grows beneath its rind, It is not worth your eating.

Ere closes summer's sultry hour, This fruit will be the first to sour.

Those wild birds see, how bless'd are they!

Where'er their pleasure leads they roam, O'er seas and mountains far away, Nor chidings fear when they come home.

Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all, With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small, With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright, Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!