ROSY GWEN.
Rosy Gwen, rosy Gwen,
Beloved of maids, beloved of men!
Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,
Of sire, sage, and matron grey!
In youth’s early day—ah what cheer’d me then!
’Twas her voice so sweet,
Her person neat,
Her form so sleek,
Her spirit meek,
And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.Gentle girl, gentle girl,
Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,
On either cheek a vivid rose.
And raven tresses graced thy brows!
Ah thou wert my love and my playmate then:
Happy lass of smiles,
Unversed in wiles
Of guileless breast—
Of minds the best,
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!Years have flown, years have flown,
And Gwenny thou’rt a woman grown.
While Time, that bears for most a sting,
Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;
Yet brighter, thou canst not be, than when
O’er the mountain steep
Thou drov’st thy sheep
And sang in glee
A child with me.
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.
He gave them next a love canzonet, of two verses; the first slow and mournful, and the last with contrasting animation and cheerfulness.
Her cheek was a rose lowly crush’d by the dew,
Now bleach’d by despair to the lily’s pale hue
For the death of young Morgan the brave;
Fame widely reported sea-mews scream’d his knell.
As in a dread sea-fight with glory he fell,
And was buried beneath thy salt wave.But false was the tale, for a victor was he,
Triumphant return’d from the wild roaring sea,
Now to seek with his dear maid repose;
He flew to his Sina with extacy’s zest,
Enraptured he press’d the lorn maid to his breast.
And then kiss’d off the dew from the rose.
The two last were but tolerated, and the singer soon found that a merry strain was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and popular duet of “Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.
HOB Y DERI DANDO [138]
Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,
Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,
Hob y deri dando, for the shade.Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,
Gentle Gweno dear;Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect me,
Faithful far and near:Both. Through life the hue of first love true,
Will never never fade.
Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,
Hob o’r deri dando, far they spread;Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,
Hob o’r deri dando, on the mead;Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,
Happy then our lot,Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as ever
In our humble cot.Both. Through life the hue of first love true
Will never never fade.
Having sung the last thrice over, he sold about a dozen ballads; and was about to treat his auditors with the old and national song of Nôs Galan, or New Year’s Eve, when, to his great surprise, the malignant visage of Parson Evans presented itself before him.
Judging of our hero’s sex by his assumed attire, several young men in the course of the day, offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.
Thus possessed of beaux and champions, Twm resolved to employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You see that old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him as he passed, “he is a bum-bailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come from; and at this very moment I’ll be bound for it, he is hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he loved me ever so much I would not have had him if his skin was stuffed with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it is to him that I owe all my misfortunes; refusing him for a sweetheart, he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the street.” Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a powerful fit of laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much on the sympathy of those now addressed; but suddenly withdrawing the apron that veiled his features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens to avenge the death of Cæsar, was not more effective than our hero’s appeal.
With a natural hatred to a bailiff, and as natural a predilection for the smiles of a handsome young woman, being “full of distempering draughts” and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment, each felt himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer, in the manner suggested by herself. One of the young men, a native of the town and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended blanket, and tossed him most vigorously in the air for about ten minutes. Exhausted at length with their labours, and allured by the fair handful of silver displayed by their victim, they accepted his bribe and desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to persecute a poor friendless girl again.”
The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak,” but soon met again at an appointed place at the back of the town, where they had left our hero, between the empty carts of the ware venders.