T. H.
I came to Penygwryd
A-larking with my betters,
A mad wag and a mad poet—
Both of them men of letters;
Which two ungrateful parties,
After all the care I’ve took
Of them, make me write verses
In Henry Owen’s book.
T. T.
We’ve been mist-soak’d on Snowdon,
Mist-soak’d on Glyder Fawr;
We’ve been wet through on an average
Every day three times an hour.
We’ve walk’d the upper leathers
From the soles of our balmorals,
And as sketchers and as fishers
With the weather have had our quarrels.
C. K.
But think just of the plants which stuff’d
Our box, old Yarrel’s gift,
And of those which might have stuff’d it
If the clouds had giv’n a lift;
Of tramping bogs, and climbing cliffs,
And shoving down stone fences
For spiderwort, Saussurea,
And Woodsia strensis.
T. H.
Oh, my dear namesake’s breeches—
You never saw the like—
He bust them all so shameful
A-crossing of a dyke;
But Mrs. Owen patched them
As careful as a mother,
With flannel of three colours—
She hadn’t got no other.
T. T.
But, can we say enough
Of those legs of mountain muttons?
And that onion sauce lies on our souls,
For it made of us three gluttons;
And the Dublin stout is genuine,
And so’s the Burton beer,
And the apple tarts they’ve won our hearts;
And think of soufflets here!