"Why," said I, "is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?"
"My master, sir, is an innkeeper," said the damsel; "but as for the
other, I don't know what you mean."
"A bard," said I, "is a prydydd, a person who makes verses -
pennillion; does not your master make them?"
"My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman,
and would scorn to make such profane stuff."
"Well," said I, "he told me he did within the last two hours. I
met him at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me
into the public-house, where we had a deal of discourse."
"You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?" said the damsel.
"Yes," said I, "and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a
poet, and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig."
"I don't see how that could be, sir," said the damsel; "my master
is at present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for
the last three days - there must be some mistake."
"Mistake," said I. "Isn't this the - Arms?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"And isn't your master's name W-?"
"No, sir, my master's name is H-, and a more respectable man - "
"Well," said I interrupting her - "all I can say is that I met a
man in Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his
name was W-, that he was a prydydd and kept the - Arms at L-."
"Well," said the damsel, "now I remember, there is a person of that
name in L-, and he also keeps a house which he calls the - Arms,
but it is only a public-house."
"But," said I, "is he not a prydydd, an illustrious poet; does he
not write pennillion which everybody admires?"
"Well," said the damsel, "I believe he does write things which he
calls pennillions, but everybody laughs at them."
"Come, come," said I, "I will not hear the productions of a man who
treated me with ale, spoken of with disrespect.
