“What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?”
“The Ceiriog, sir.”
“The Ceiriog,” said I; “the Ceiriog!”
“Did you ever hear the name before, sir?”
“I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog,” said I; “the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”
“That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.”
“Did he live hereabout?”
“Oh no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a place called Pont y Meibion.”
“Are you acquainted with his works?” said I.
“Oh yes, sir, at least with some of them. I have read the Marwnad on Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men. Ah, it is a funny piece that—he did not like Oliver nor his men.”