"
"A bard," said I, "is a prydydd, a person who makes verses -
pennillion; does not your master make them?"
"My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman,
and would scorn to make such profane stuff."
"Well," said I, "he told me he did within the last two hours. I
met him at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me
into the public-house, where we had a deal of discourse."
"You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?" said the damsel.
"Yes," said I, "and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a
poet, and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig."
"I don't see how that could be, sir," said the damsel; "my master
is at present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for
the last three days - there must be some mistake."
"Mistake," said I. "Isn't this the - Arms?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"And isn't your master's name W-?"
"No, sir, my master's name is H-, and a more respectable man - "
"Well," said I interrupting her - "all I can say is that I met a
man in Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his
name was W-, that he was a prydydd and kept the - Arms at L-."
"Well," said the damsel, "now I remember, there is a person of that
name in L-, and he also keeps a house which he calls the - Arms,
but it is only a public-house.
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