They say they will stand up for Sir Watkin, and so
they will, but only in a box in the Court to give false evidence.
They won't fight for him on the banks of the river. Countrymen of
mine, indeed! they are no countrymen of mine; they are from
Wrexham, where the people speak neither English nor Welsh, not even
South Welsh as you do."
Then giving a kind of flourish with his stick he departed.
CHAPTER LXVIII
Llan Silin Church - Tomb of Huw Morris - Barbara and Richard -
Welsh Country Clergyman - The Swearing Lad - Anglo-Saxon Devils.
HAVING discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me
the grave of Huw Morris. "With pleasure, sir," said he; "pray
follow me." He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous
yew trees were standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as
far back as the days of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was
still the favourite weapon of the men of Britain. The church
fronts the south, the portico being in that direction. The body of
the sacred edifice is ancient, but the steeple which bears a gilded
cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper led me directly up to the
southern wall, then pointing to a broad discoloured slab, which lay
on the ground just outside the wall, about midway between the
portico and the oriel end, he said:
"Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir." Forthwith taking off
my hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering
the cold remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees,
proceeded to examine it attentively. It is covered over with
letters three parts defaced. All I could make out of the
inscription was the date of the poet's death, 1709. "A great
genius, a very great genius, sir," said the inn-keeper, after I had
got on my feet and put on my hat.
"He was indeed," said I; "are you acquainted with his poetry?"
"Oh yes," said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines
composed by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard
the intoxicated stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy,
the day I went to visit the poet's residence with John Jones.
"Do you know any more of Huw's poetry?" said I.
"No," said the innkeeper. "Those lines, however, I have known ever
since I was a child and repeated them, more particularly of late
since age has come upon me and I have felt that I cannot last
long."
It is very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people's
mouths.
