Better for thee thy boughs to wave,
Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave,
Than stand in pristine glory drest
Where some ignobler bard doth rest;
I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme
From one who'll live through endless time,
Than hear my praises chanted loud
By poets of the vulgar crowd."
I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden,
at some little distance from the farm-house, gazing about me and
meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog. He had
rather a youthful look, was of the middle size, and dark
complexioned. He was respectably dressed, except that upon his
head he wore a common hairy cap.
"Good evening," said I to him in Welsh.
"Good evening, gentleman," said he in the same language.
"Have you much English?" said I.
"Very little; I can only speak a few words."
"Are you the farmer?"
"Yes! I farm the greater part of the Strath."
"I suppose the land is very good here?"
"Why do you suppose so?"
"Because the monks built their house here in the old time, and the
monks never built their houses except on good land."
"Well, I must say the land is good; indeed I do not think there is
any so good in Shire Aberteifi."
"I suppose you are surprised to see me here; I came to see the old
Monachlog.
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