FYTTE II. Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead. Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling, For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R. Its first syllable, "PEN," Is pronounceable;--then Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N; About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN." Well,--the moon shone bright Upon "PEN" that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride. Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, as we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopped, and look'd down on the valley below. O'er fell, and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye rov'd, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Of Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,-- Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold; Of King Edward the First, Of mem'ry accurst; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing Poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved. Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; And how Mr. Tudor Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in-law to the King.