"You Never Had A Prydydd Like Huw Morris In South Wales," Said He;
"Nor Twm O'r Nant Either."
"South Wales has produced good poets," said I.
"No, it hasn't," said the old fellow; "it never produced one. If
it had, you wouldn't have needed to come here to see the grave of a
poet; you would have found one at home."
As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about
to depart. Just then in burst a rabble rout of game-keepers and
river-watchers who had come from the petty sessions, and were in
high glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having
been convicted and heavily fined. Two or three of them were
particularly boisterous, running against some of the guests who
were sitting or standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord
about, crying at the same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin
to the last, and would never see him plundered. One of them, a
fellow of about thirty, in a hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow
breeches, and dirty white top-boots, who was the most obstreperous
of them all, at last came up to the old chap who disliked South
Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing that he would
stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy of the
South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with
the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the
fellow's poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have
broken it.
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