"Well," said I, "I can't sing its praises in a Welsh englyn, but I
think I can contrive to do so in an English quatrain, with the help
of what you have told me. What do you think of this? -
"Llangollen's brown ale is with malt and hop rife;
'Tis good; but don't quaff it from evening till dawn;
For too much of that ale will incline you to strife;
Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn."
"That's not so bad," said the old church clerk, "but I think some
of our bards could have produced something better - that is, in
Welsh; for example old - What's the name of the old bard who wrote
so many englynion on ale?"
"Sion Tudor," said I; "O yes; but he was a great poet. Ah, he has
written some wonderful englynion on ale; but you will please to
bear in mind that all his englynion are upon bad ale, and it is
easier to turn to ridicule what is bad, than to do anything like
justice to what is good."
O, great was the rejoicing for a few days at Llangollen for the
reported triumph; and the share of the Welsh in that triumph
reconciled for a time the descendants of the Ancient Britons to the
seed of the coiling serpent. "Welsh and Saxons together will
conquer the world!" shouted brats, as they stood barefooted in the
kennel.
