The Poetry of Wales

by Unknown

OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.

By the Rev. Evan Evans.

Translated by T. W. Harris, Esq., and another.

Hus.—Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs,
Their cry is not so fine:
And if you have not, don’t delay,
’Tis nearly half-past nine.

Wife.—There, now your noisy din begins,
Ding, ding, and endless ding,
I do believe your scolding voice
Me to the grave will bring.

H.—Were you to drop in there to-day,
This day would end my sorrow.

W.—But I shall not to please you, Mog,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow.

H.—Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,

W.—And you to beg and borrow,

H.—Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,

W.—Not at your bidding, never;
I’d talk as long as I thought fit,
Were I to live for ever.

H.—Your voice if raised a little more,
Would rouse the very dead,
A pretty noise, because I ask’d
If you the pigs had fed.

W.—I’ll raise my voice, Mog, louder still,
As sure as you were born,
Why should you ask “How many loaves
Came from the peck of corn?”

H.—Should not the master of the house
Know every undertaking?

W.—And wear his wife’s own crinoline,
And try his hand at baking!

H.—The breeches you would like to wear!

W.—What vulgar jests you’re making!

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, don’t speak so loud,
Your noise will stun the cattle!

W.—The only noise that could do that
Is your continued rattle.

H.—As sounds a bee upon her back,
So does this wasp I’ve got,
And all because I ask’d if she
Had fed the pigs or not.

W.—Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse,
Yes, ten times worse and more,
Still asking, “How this churning gave
Less than the one before?”

H.—You know the butter pays our rent,
And many another matter.

W.—I know that if the cows are starved
They won’t get any fatter!

H.—I give the cows enough to eat.

W.—Well do, and hold your clatter.

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise,
’Twould shame a barrel organ.

W.—If I were half as loud as you,
I think it would, Old Morgan!

H.—Your temper, Jane, will drive me soon
To share a soldier’s lot,
To march with gun and martial tune
’Midst powder, smoke, and shot.

W.—What! you a soldier? never, Mog!
Your heart is coward too,
You’ll fight with no one but with me,
You’ve then enough to do!

H.—I’ll go and fight the mighty Czar,
To aid the Turkish nation.

W.—Then go, a greater Turk than you
Breathes not within creation!

H.—For shame, to call your husband Turk.

W.—Such is my pledg’d relation.

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, let’s now shake hands
And we’ll be henceforth friends.

W.—No, not till you have stopp’d will I,
Be still, or make amends.

SONG OF THE FOSTER-SON, LOVE.

By Rev. Daniel evans, B.D.

I got a foster-son, whose name was Love,
From one endued with beauty from above.
To bring him up with fond and tender care—
Was an obligation from my fair.—

And for the guileless, beaming star’s sweet sake
Him to my bosom did I kindly take,
Him warmly cherished and with joy caress’d,
Like Philomela in the parent breast!

Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup,
With food and nurture did I bring him up;
He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair,
And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!

Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become,
Morose, insubordinate and glum,
A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain:
To strive against the darts of love is vain.

And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow,
He points it at me and shoots high and low.
Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee;
Where from his darts and wily snares be free?

All fickle is the foster-son, indeed;
He leads me on to the flowery mead,
When all is peace and harmony around
He wrings my ears with doleful sound.

And woe betide if e’er he sees one dare
A single word exchange with the fair,
He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart,
And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.

One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong
On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along,
A curious thought upon my mind did flash
That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.

With this intent I straightway armed myself,
My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf;
When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke,
But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!

I am father to a foster-son
Most cruel since this earth began to run:
Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said,
“The fates may take him, foster’d on my bread.”

Then must I live in sorrow evermore
No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore?
And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart
To plant its talons with a fatal dart?

No, there yet will beam a brilliant day
To chase these lurid, murky clouds away!
Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away,
Blow off thy cares, like ocean’s shifting spray.

There is a blushing rose that blooms unseen
In yonder valley decked with leaflets green,
’Twill healthy heart, tho’ shatter’d and forlorn,
Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.

’Tis there my darling Dora makes her home;
’Tis there my wand’ring glances fondly roam;
’Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines;
’Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.

’Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells,
And sister gentleness the bosom swells,
’Tis there where now the lovely lily grows
Beside the purling brook that ever flows.

There’s one, and only one to cheer my soul,
To heal my anguish, and my grief control;
’Tis she who did the foster-boy impart
To nestle deeply in my restless heart.

And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay
For time and nurture, anguish and delay,
Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see
Then must I from her arms for ever flee.