"So you are a poet?
Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have been fond of Welsh
poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you employ in
general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty
measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the
ancient heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of
the great men of the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured
guest at their tables. I'll bet a guinea that however clever a
fellow you may be you never sang anything in praise of your
landlord's housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise
of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago:
'For Ryce if hundred thousands plough'd
The lands around his fair abode;
Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,
Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;
If all the earth had bread's sweet savour,
And water all had cyder's flavour,
Three roaring feasts in Ryce's hall
Would swallow earth and ocean all.'
Hey?"
"Really, sir," said the landlord, "I don't know how to reply to
you, for the greater part of your discourse is utterly
unintelligible to me. Perhaps you are a better Welshman than
myself; but however that may be, I shall take the liberty of
retiring in order to give orders about your supper."
In about half-an-hour the supper made its appearance in the shape
of some bacon and eggs.
