When thus he had bereft me Of cash, and ah! my heart, The cruel rover left me It grieved me then to part: Those clothes will rend in tatters, They cannot last him long, A curse attend such matters, False lover’s curse is strong! 6 His coat will rend in creases, His stockings break in holes, His breeches go to pieces, His shoes part from their soles: His hair, like garden carrot, Full soon will want a hat, How soon, indeed I care not, The devil care for that. This pleased his auditors so well that he was soon left without a copy of it, on which, he began another, preluding it with the observation “Now this my friends is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymru and go to London, from which, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, flummery, nor anything else there fit for a christian people.” When a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills, And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills. The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite, And plung’d in the river with lively delight! Ah who then so cheerful, so happy as me, At I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brindee. How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake, Fearful of nought but the never-seen snake, And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around, While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound; Oh gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as free As a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brindee. Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm, How kindly was tender’d the new milk so warm, O’er her best loaf as butter or honey she’d spread, The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head, And sue that she shortly again should see me Whenever my rambles led forth from Brindee. How of I have I run with my Strawberry wreath {136a} To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath, And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen, {136b} Oh! I still think how joyously sung little Gwen The old folks oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we, The Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brindee. At the fair of Dyvonnock, o’ertaken by night, Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light, The wandering spirit, the hobgobling fell, Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell: I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brindee. Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went, My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content, Unknown to ambition, and free from all care, A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair; Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me, Far far’s my loved Cambria! far far is Brindee.