Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The

pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air

which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set

forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which

was quite a Welsh institution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in

use except at eisteddfodau.]

Many an apple will y
u find

In hue and bloom so cheating,

That, search what grows beneath its rind,

It is not worth your eating.

Ere closes summer's sultry hour,

This fruit will be the first to sour.

* * * * * *

Those wild birds see, how bless'd are they!

Where'er their pleasure leads they roam,

O'er seas and mountains far away,

Nor chidings fear when they come home.

* * * * *

Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all,

With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small,

With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright,

Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!

* * * * *

Place on my breast, if still you doubt,

Your hand, but no rough pressure making,

And, if you listen, you'll find out,

How throbs a little heart when breaking.

* * * * *

Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise

Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize;

Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me,

And I full as comely as any they see!

* * * * *

From this world all in time must move,

'Tis known to every simple swain;

And 'twere as well to die of love

As any other mortal pain.

* * * * *

'Tis noised abroad, where'er one goes,

And I am fain to hear,

That no one in the country knows

The girl to me most dear:

And, 'tis so true, that scarce I wot,

If I know well myself or not.

* * * * *

What noise and scandal fill my ear,

One half the world to censure prone!

Of all the faults that thus I hear,

None yet have told me of their own.

* * * * *

Varied the stars, when nights are clear,

Varied are the flowers of May,

Varied th' attire that women wear,

Truly varied too are they.

* * * * *

To rest to-night I'll not repair,

The one I love reclines not here:

I'll lay me on the stone apart,

If break thou wilt, then break my heart.

* * * * *

In praise or blame no truth is found,

Whilst specious lies do so abound;

Sooner expect a tuneful crow,

Than man with double face to know.

* * * * *

My speech until this very day,

Was ne'er so like to run astray:

But now I find, when going wrong,

My teeth of use to atop my tongue.