OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.
BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.
TRANSLATED BY T. W. HARRIS, ESQ., AND ANOTHER.
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs,
Their cry is not so fine:
And if you have not, don't delay,
'Tis nearly half-past nine.
Wife.--There, now your noisy din begins,
Ding, ding, and endless ding,
I do believe your scolding voice
Me to the grave will bring.
H.--Were you to drop in there to-day,
This day would end my sorrow.
W.--But I shall not to please you, Mog,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow.
H.--Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,
W.--And you to beg and borrow,
H.--Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,
W.--Not at your bidding, never;
I'd talk as long as I thought fit,
Were I to live for ever.
H.--Your voice if raised a little more,
Would rouse the very dead,
A pretty noise, because I ask'd
If you the pigs had fed.
W.--I'll raise my voice, Mog, louder still,
As sure as you were born,
Why should you ask "How many loaves
Came from the peck of corn?"
H.--Should not the master of the house
Know every undertaking?
W.--And wear his wife's own crinoline,
And try his hand at baking!
H.--The breeches you would like to wear!
W.--What vulgar jests you're making!
H.--Stop Jane, stop Jane, don't speak so loud,
Your noise will stun the cattle!
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 butter 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 shifting spray.
There is a blushing 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 shines;
'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 institution, 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!
* * * * *
Place on my breast, if still you doubt,
Your hand, but no rough pressure making,
And, if you listen, you'll find out,
How throbs a little heart when breaking.
* * * * *
Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise
Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize;
Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me,
And I full as comely as any they see!
* * * * *
From this world all in time must move,
'Tis known to every simple swain;
And 'twere as well to die of love
As any other mortal pain.
* * * * *
'Tis noised abroad, where'er one goes,
And I am fain to hear,
That no one in the country knows
The girl to me most dear:
And, 'tis so true, that scarce I wot,
If I know well myself or not.
* * * * *
What noise and scandal fill my ear,
One half the world to censure prone!
Of all the faults that thus I hear,
None yet have told me of their own.
* * * * *
Varied the stars, when nights are clear,
Varied are the flowers of May,
Varied th' attire that women wear,
Truly varied too are they.
* * * * *
To rest to-night I'll not repair,
The one I love reclines not here:
I'll lay me on the stone apart,
If break thou wilt, then break my heart.
* * * * *
In praise or blame no truth is found,
Whilst specious lies do so abound;
Sooner expect a tuneful crow,
Than man with double face to know.
* * * * *
My speech until this very day,
Was ne'er so like to run astray:
But now I find, when going wrong,
My teeth of use to atop my tongue.
TRIBANAU.
[The editor of the "Cambro Briton" (J. H. Parry, Esq., father of Mr.
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The following translations
will serve to give the English reader a faint, though perhaps, but a
faint idea of the Welsh _Tribanau_, which are most of them, like these,
remarkable for their quaintness, as well as for the epigrammatic point in
which they terminate."]
No cheat is it to cheat the cheater,
No treason to betray the traitor,
Nor is it theft, I'm not deceiving,
To thieve from him who lives by thieving.
* * * * *
Three things there are that ne'er stand still;
A pig upon a high-topt hill,
A snail the naked stones among,
And Tom the Miller's rattling tongue.
* * * * *
Three things 'tis difficult to scan;
The day, an aged oak, and man:
The day is long, the oak is hollow,
And man--he is a two fac'd fellow.