"Sion Tudor," I replied.
"There you are wrong," said the man in grey; "his name was not Sion
Tudor but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote
an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little
Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai
is hinted at."
"You are right," said I, "you are right. Well, I am glad that all
song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon."
"Dead," said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather
flushed, "they are neither dead nor ever will be. There are plenty
of poets in Anglesey - why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them
and not the least - pooh, what was I going to say? twelve there
are, genuine Anglesey poets, born there, and living there for the
love they bear their native land. When I say they all live in
Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite accurate, for one of the dozen
does not exactly live in Anglesey, but just over the bridge. He is
an elderly man, but his awen, I assure you, is as young and
vigorous as ever."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised," said I, "if he was a certain
ancient gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with
respect to the birth-place of Gronwy Owen."
"Very likely," said the man in grey; "well, if you have seen him
consider yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a
genuine son of Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the
water.
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