dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim—‘Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales.’”
“How!” said Peter, “hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?”
“With notes critical, historical, and explanatory.”
“Come with us, friend,” said Peter. “I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting.”
“Come with us, young man,” said Winifred, “even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.”
“I will not go with you,” said I. “Dost thou see that man in the ford?”
“Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him.”
“I shall turn back with him. God bless you!”
“Go back with him not,” said Peter, “he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes—turn not with that man.”
“Go not back with him,” said Winifred. “If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.”