From rock to rock the Dee may roam,
And chafe without avail;
It cannot match its yeasty foam
Against Llangollen Ale.
The umber-tinted trees that crown
Bron-vawr’s ridge are pale,
Contrasted with the nutty brown
That tints Llangollen Ale.
Nor is the keep of Dinas-bran,
Though high and hard to scale,
So elevated as the man
Who drinks Llangollen Ale.
Thy shattered arch, beside the way,
Val-crucis, tells a tale
Of monks who sometimes went astray
To quaff Llangollen Ale.
And still upon the saintly spot
The pilgrim may regale
His fainting spirits with a pot
Of good Llangollen Ale.
For though the ancient portress may
Not offer it for sale,
Yet cheerfully to all who pay
She gives Llangollen Ale.
And, Eliseg, thy pillar rude
Is merely—I’ll be bail—
A monument to him who brewed
The first Llangollen Ale.
In short, each ruin, stream, or tree,
Within Llangollen’s Vale,
Where’er I turn, whate’er I see,
Is redolent of Ale.
Liverpool. R. R.
The convivial disposition of the monks of the “olden time” has always been a favourite theme with our romance writers and “ballad-mongers;” but it would appear from a passage which Mr. Roscoe quotes, that the cowled brethren of Valle Crucis Abbey did not content themselves in their hours of festivity with draughts of “Llangollen Ale.” The wealth of the institution, he infers, may be judged of by the magnificent hospitality of the monks, who are described by Owain as having the table usually covered with four courses of meat, served up in silver dishes, with sparkling claret for their general beverage.