The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce to commence His "ingenious defence," Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense:" "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"-- The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored,"--he was "apt to be rather too quick;"-- But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;--all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!" Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones." While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the Deceased Had styled him "a Beast," And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, _Sarve her right!_" 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; it's 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, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below.