At last, methought, the young
man said - "There they are, the verses of the Nightingale, on his
death-bed."
I took the book and read aloud the following lines beautifully
descriptive of the eagerness of a Christian soul to leave its
perishing tabernacle, and get to Paradise and its Creator:-
"Myn'd i'r wyl ar redeg,
I'r byd a beryi chwaneg,
I Beradwys, y ber wiw deg,
Yn Enw Duw yn union deg."
"Do you understand those verses?" said the man on the settle, a
dark swarthy fellow with an oblique kind of vision, and dressed in
a pepper-and-salt coat.
"I will translate them," said I; and forthwith put them into
English - first into prose and then into rhyme, the rhymed version
running thus:-
"Now to my rest I hurry away,
To the world which lasts for ever and aye,
To Paradise, the beautiful place,
Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace" -
"Well," said he of the pepper-and-salt, "if that isn't capital I
don't know what is."
A scene in a public-house, yes! but in a Welsh public-house. Only
think of a Suffolk toper repeating the death-bed verses of a poet;
surely there is a considerable difference between the Celt and the
Saxon.
