WELSH SONGS.
TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN.
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef,
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone.
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in;
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin;
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed,
I took up a poker and flung it at his head.”
Taffy is a corruption of Taffid, the Welsh form of David. This very old nursery rhyme owes its origin to the continual raids and cattle-lifting expeditions which took place on the Welsh borders in the middle ages, but it has long since lost all serious meaning with those who repeat it. Twenty years ago the late Mr. Shirley Brooks completely re-modelled the poem very much in Taffy’s favour.
Taffy is a Welshman:
Taffy’s not a thief;
Taffy’s mutton’s very good,
Not so good his beef:
I went to Taffy’s house,
Several things I saw,
Cleanliness and godliness,
Obedience to the law.
If Taffy rides to my house,
Or unto Pat’s doth swim,
I think my Taffy will remark
That we might learn of him.
He does not drink, my Taffy,
(Not leastwise as a rule);
He goes to chapel regular,
And sends his boys to school;
He dresses well on Sunday,
His family the like;
He’s not too fond of over-work,
But seldom cares to strike;
He never lurks behind a hedge
To pay his rent with slugs.
Up craggy hills of steep incline
His garden mould he lugs;
And there he grows his garden,
His cabbages and leeks;
His kids get green meat in their mouths,
And roses in their cheeks.
Taffy is a Welshman,
And glories in the name,
To laugh at which enjoyment
Appears to me a shame.
You compliment the Scotchman
Who talks of Bruce and Burns;
You tolerate the Irishman
Who vaunts ancestral Kerns;
You’re nuts on your own pedigree,
Won’t call it English, fair,
But prate of “Anglo-Saxons,”
Till Reviewers nearly swear.
Why shouldn’t gallant Taffy
Have his relics and his bones,
Llewelyns and Cadwallos,
And Griffyevanjones?
To say nothing of the question
Whether Taffy’s mother-tongue
Wasn’t quite a fine old
When all of ours were young.
He says he has good poets,
Leave him his own opinion:
You like obscure old ballads,
And Taffy likes Englynion.
Pray are not “moel,” “afon,”
And “Morwyns” (pretty rogues),
At least as good as “birks” and “braes,”
“Mavourneens,” “Arrah Pogues!”
By all Nantfrancon’s Beavers,
Of the pre-historic age;
By Aberglaslyn’s hoary bridge,
And the Swallow’s roaring rage;
By the trout of Capel Curig,
By Carnarvon’s Eagled Tower,
The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch,
And the frown of Penmaenmawr;
By yon lonely Puffin Island,
And the monster head of Orme,
The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh,
Llanberis, Pass of Storm;
By the magic bridge of Bangor,
Hung awful in the sky,
By the grave at sweet Beddgelert,
Where the Martyr-hound doth lie;
By the lightnings that on Snowdon
Glint, the jewels of his crown,
Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right,
And never be put down.
If all Victoria’s subjects
Were half as good as thou,
Victoria’s subjects would kick up
Uncommon little row.
And Punch, Incarnate Justice,
Intends henceforth to lick
All who shall scorn or sneer at you,
You jolly little Brick!
Shirley Brooks.
The Welsh were naturally much pleased with this version, and speedily translated it into their own language:
Cymro ydyw Taffy,
Lladratta byth ni wna;
Mae mutton Taffy’n gampus,
Nid yw ei biff mor dda.
Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy,
I wel’d ei ddull o fyw—
Mae’n lân a duwiol yn ei dy,
I’r gyfraith ufudd yw,
Os merchyg Taffy yma,
At Pat os nawf y lli,
Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef
Fod ganddo wers i ni:
Nid ydyw Taffy’n yfed.
Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant,
I’r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn,
I’r ysgol gyr ei blant;
Ymwisga ’n hardd y Sabbath,
A’i deulu yr un modd;
Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith,
A strike ni fyn o’i fodd;
Ni lecha byth tu ol i’r gwrych,
I dalu ei rent a phlwm;
Mae’n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith
I fyny’r llechwedd llwm;
Ac yno tyf ei foron,
A’i genin yn ei ardd.
Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau ’i blant,
A gwrid i’w gruddiau hardd.
Cymro ydyw Taffy,
A dyna’i fynych fost,
Ymddengys gwawdio’r fath fwynhâd,
I mi’n gywilydd tost:
Canmolwch yr Ysgotyn
Am son am Bruce a Burns;
A goddef wnewch i’r Gwyddel tlawd
Ymffrostio ’n nheulu Kerns;
Ni fynwch chwithau chwaith,
Eich galw ’n Saeson teg,
Ond dwndro am “Anglo-Saxons” wnewch,
Nes peri i ddyn roi rheg.
Pa’m na chaiff Taffy ddewrwych
Am ei hynafiaid son—
Caswallon a Charadoc fawr.
A Gryffydd Ifan Shon?
Heb son dim oll am holi,
Allasai ’i famiaith fod
Yn hen iaith bur y pryd nad oedd
Ein holl rai ni mewn bod.
Mae’n d’weyd fod ganddo brif-feirdd,
Boed iddo ’i farn ar hyn;
Hen gerddi tywyll hoffwch chwi,
Englynion yntau fyn.
Ai nid yw “moel,” ac “afon,”
“Morwynion” (hudol rôgs),
Yn llawn mor dda a “birks,” a “braes,”
“Mavourneens,” “Arrah pôgs?”
Yn enw efeingc gwylltion
Nantffrancon oes a fu,
Y bont ar Aberglaslyn,
A’r Wennol groch ei rhu,
Britbylliaid Capel Curig,
Twr Eryr Arton hen.
Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr,
A Than y Bwlch a’i wên;
Yn enw Ynys Seiriol,
A’r Gogarth erch ei drwyn;
Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd,
Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn;
Yn enw Crog-bont Menai,
Sy’n hongian yn y nen;
Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi
A’r garnedd uwch ei ben,
Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa,
Sy’n euro ei goron fawr.
Sa ’i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl,
Na’th fwrier byth i lawr,
Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug
Yn hanner mor ddi fai,
Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith
Yn llawer iawn yn llai;
Mae Punch, y Barnwr Cyfiawn,
Am roddi curfa ci
I bawb ro’nt ddirmyg it’ rhagllaw
Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.
This translation is taken from a most entertaining as well as useful work, entitled The Gossiping Guide to Wales, written by the late Mr. J. Askew Roberts, and published by Woodall, Minshall & Co., Oswestry 1886.
Bouncer was a welsher,
Bouncer was a thief,
I won a bet of Bouncer,
And came to awful grief.
When I went to Bouncer,
He said he hadn’t bet it,
Put his thumb up to his nose,
And wished that I might get it.
Of the favourite Welsh songs, such as Jenny Jones, Ah hyd y nos, and The Maid of Llangollen, only a few parodies are to be found, and they are scarcely worth reprinting.
Term Commences.
On by the love of costs we’re goaded—
“Term” begins then mischief’s boded,
For we’ve hearts as hard as steel
What care we for wrong or right,
When we hold a client tight,
Or the least compunction feel!
Like serpents now, we’re slyly creeping,
Then on our prey like tigers leaping.
In a twinkling we garotte him—
No escape when so we’ve got him.
While on him there is a stopper,
We clean him out of every copper.
Stick unto him till we bag
All he has to the last mag;
His body then, by way of ransom,
We seize and squeeze out something handsome.
Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring—
In our charges fast keep pouring;
Actions ne’er by us are stayed.
Ours is a safe and thriving trade;
To the Law Courts let’s away,
Expenses call and we obey.
The Tory March.
With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, and dancing,
Lying speeches, vain romancing,
See the boastful foe advancing
Onward to the fray.
Banners now are gaily streaming!
In Liberal colours falsely gleaming,
Hoping by thus meanly scheming,
Yet to win the day.
Jingo shouts are hoarsely braying,
Brazen trumpets loudly playing,
High-toned churchmen warmly praying
For Tory victory.
Like the ass in olden fable,
Clothed in lion’s skin unstable,
They can but bray (to roar unable)
Of Tory liberty!
Turn from them with loathing,
Contempt and anger both in,
And ever they
Will rue the day
They dressed in Liberal clothing;
Honest truth will overcome them,
The stolen skin will not become them,
So tear the lion’s covering from them,
And show the ass beneath.
Songs for Liberal Electors. 1885.
Liberal Marching Song.
Brothers, up, to win new glory,
That shall brighten future story,
Sweeping off abuses hoary,
Shaping righteous laws;
To the Ballot early go, men;
That we mean to conquer, show, men;
Well, we vote to win, we know, men
For the good old cause.
For ourselves we’re fighting,
The people nobly righting;
Quick, come all, at Freedom’s call,
To do her will delighting.
On, your Blue to victory bearing:
Nought for all their vauntings caring:
For the Right all dangers daring—
Better lives and laws.
W. C. Bennett.