The source of the Wye, which is a little pool, not much larger than that which constitutes the fountain of the Severn, stands near the top of a grassy hill which forms part of the Great Plynlimmon. The stream after leaving its source runs down the hill towards the east, and then takes a turn to the south. The fountains of the Severn and the Wye are in close proximity to each other. That of the Rheidol stands somewhat apart from both, as if, proud of its own beauty, it disdained the other two for their homeliness. All three are contained within the compass of a mile.
“And now, I suppose, sir, that our work is done, and we may go back to where we came from,” said my guide, as I stood on the grassy hill after drinking copiously of the fountain of the Wye.
“We may,” said I; “but before we do I must repeat some lines made by a man who visited these sources, and experienced the hospitality of a chieftain in this neighbourhood four hundred years ago.” Then taking off my hat I lifted up my voice and sang:—
“From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side
Three streams in three directions glide,
To thousands at their mouth who tarry
Honey, gold and mead they carry.
Flow also from Plynlimmon high
Three streams of generosity;
The first, a noble stream indeed,
Like rills of Mona runs with mead;
The second bears from vineyards thick
Wine to the feeble and the sick;
The third, till time shall be no more,
Mingled with gold shall silver pour.”
“Nice pennillion, sir, I dare say,” said my guide, “provided a person could understand them. What’s meant by all this mead, wine, gold and silver?”
“Why,” said I, “the bard meant to say that Plynlimmon, by means of its three channels, sends blessings and wealth in three different directions to distant places, and that the person whom he came to visit, and who lived on Plynlimmon, distributed his bounty in three different ways, giving mead to thousands at his banquets, wine from the vineyards of Gascony to the sick and feeble of the neighbourhood, and gold and silver to those who were willing to be tipped, amongst whom no doubt was himself, as poets have never been above receiving a present.”
“Nor above asking for one, your honour; there’s a prydydd in this neighbourhood, who will never lose a shilling for want of asking for it. Now, sir, have the kindness to tell me the name of the man who made those pennillion.”
“Lewis Glyn Cothi,” said I; “at least, it was he who made the pennillion from which those verses are translated.”
“And what was the name of the gentleman whom he came to visit?”