My bardic friend "Caradawc," of Abergavenny, sent me the following
Englyn, with a request that I would write an English translation:
ENGLYN I'R IAITH GYMRAEG.
Iaith anwyl y Brythoniaid;—Iaith gywrain—
Iaith gara fy Enaid;
Iaith gry, iaith bery heb baid,
Gorenwog Iaith Gwroniaid.
IOAN DAFYDD A'I CANT.
To which was written and forwarded the following reply;
ON THE WELSH LANGUAGE.
A language to love—when our tongues in love speak it;
A language to hate—when 'tis spoken by fools;
A language to live—when the pure in life seek it,
A language to die—when the lying tongue rules;
A blessing—when blessings lead men to enjoy it;
A curse—when for cursing 'tis used as a rod;
The language of Satan—when devils employ it;
When angels indite it—the language of God.
A FOOLISH BIRD.
An ostrich o'er the desert wide,
With upturned beak and jaunty stride,
In stately, self-sufficient pride,
One day was gently roaming.
When—dreadful sound to ostrich ears,
To ostrich mind the worst of fears—
Our desert champion thinks he hears
The dreaded hunter coming.
Ill-fated bird! He might have fled:
Those legs of his would soon have sped
That flossy tail—that lofty head—
Far, far away from danger.
But—fatal error of his race—
In sandy bank he hid his face,
And thought by this to evade the chase
Of the ostrich-bagging ranger.
So he who, like the ostrich vain,
Is ign'rant, and would so remain,
Of what folks do, it's very plain
In folly's road he's walking.
For if in sand you hide your head
Just to escape that which you dread,
And, seeing not, say danger's fled:
'Tis worse than childish talking.