“It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing.”
“Is it a high hill?”
“It is not; it is a small, light hill.”
“A light hill!” said I to myself. “Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower’s bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.”
“There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll.”
“Is there a little river near it,” said I to the cook—“a ffrwd?”
“There is; it runs just under the hill.”
“Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?”
“There is not; that is, now,—but there was in the old time; a factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood.”
“A mill, a rushing brook upon,
And pigeon tower fram’d of stone.”