During the three days the Festival lasted, such scenes as I have described were repeated,--the only changes being in the persons of the singers and spouters. Glad enough was I when all was over, and my occupation as reporter gone, for that time at least. With the aid of a Welsh friend I managed to make a highly florid report of the proceedings, which occupied no less than eight columns of the "M---- Beacon." As several of the speakers were only too glad to give me, _sub rosâ_, copies of their speeches in their native language, and as none knew of the fact but ourselves, I gained no little reputation as an accomplished Welsh scholar. The result of this was, that presents of Welsh Bibles, hymn-books, histories, topographies, and the like, by the score, were forwarded to me,--some out of respect for my talents as a great Welsh linguist, others for review in the newspaper. I was neither born to such greatness, nor did I ever achieve it; it was literally thrust on me; so also were sundry joints of the delicious Liliputian Welsh mutton, which latter I am not ashamed to say I thoroughly understood, appreciated, and digested. The ancient _litter_-ature, I am sorry to confess, I sold as waste paper, at so much per pound; but to show that some lingering regard for at least two of Cambria's institutions yet reigns in this ---- bosom, I am just about to begin upon a Welsh rabbit, and wash it down with a pitcher of _cwrw dach_. CORNUCOPIA. There's a lodger lives on the first floor, (My lodgings are up in the garret,) At night and at morn he taketh a horn And calleth his neighbors to share it,-- A horn so long, and a horn so strong, I wonder how they can bear it. I don't mean to say that he drinks, For that were a joke or a scandal; But, every one knows it, he night and day blows it;-- I wish he'd blow out like a candle! His horn is so long, and he blows it so strong, He would make Handel fly off the handle. By taking a horn I don't hint That he swigs either rum, gin, or whiskey; It's _we_ who drink in his din worse than gin, His strains that attempt to be frisky, But are grievously sad.--A donkey, I add, Is as musical, braying in _his_ key. It's a puzzle to know what he's at; I could pity him, if it were madness: I never yet knew him to play a tune through, And it gives me more anger than sadness To hear his horn stutter and stammer to utter Its various abortions of badness. At his wide open window he stands, Overlooking his bit of a garden; One can see the great ass at one end of his brass Blaring out, never asking your pardon: This terrible blurting he thinks is not hurting, As long as his own ear-drums harden.