But think just of the plants which stuff’d Our box, old Yarrel’s gift, And of those which might have stuff’d it If the clouds had giv’n a lift; Of tramping bogs, and climbing cliffs, And shoving down stone fences For spiderwort, Saussurea, And Woodsia strensis. T. H. Oh, my dear namesake’s breeches-- You never saw the like-- He bust them all so shameful A-crossing of a dyke; But Mrs. Owen patched them As careful as a mother, With flannel of three colours-- She hadn’t got no other. T. T. But, can we say enough Of those legs of mountain muttons? And that onion sauce lies on our souls, For it made of us three gluttons; And the Dublin stout is genuine, And so’s the Burton beer, And the apple tarts they’ve won our hearts; And think of soufflets here! C. K. Resembling that old woman That never could be quiet, Though victuals (says the child’s song) And drink formed all her diet, My love for plants and scrambling Shared empire with my dinner; And who says it wasn’t good must be A most fastidious sinner. T. H. Now, all I’ve got to say is, You can’t be better treated. Order pancakes, and you’ll find They’re the best you ever eated; If you scramble o’er the mountains, You should bring an ordnance map; I endorse all that previous gents Have said about the tap. T. T. Penygwryd, when wet and worn, has kept A warm fireside for us; Socks, boots, and never-mention-’ems, Mrs. Owen still has dried for us; With host and hostess, fare and bill, So pleased we are that, going, We feel, for all their kindness, ’Tis we, not they, are Owin’. T. H., T. T., C. K. Nos tres in uno juncti Hos fecimus versiculos, Tomas piscator pisces qui Non cepi sed pisciculos, Tomas sciagraphus sketches qui Non feci sed ridiculos, Herbarius Carolus montes qui Nostravi perpendiculos. T. H. There’s big trout I hear in Edno, Likewise in Gwynant lake, And the governor and black alder Are the flies that they will take, Also the cockabondy, But I can only say, If you think to catch big fishes, I only hope you may! T. T. I have come in for more of mountain gloom Than mountain glory, But I’ve seen old Snowdon rear his head With storm-toss’d mist-wreaths hoary I stood in the fight of mountain winds Upon Bwlch-cwm-y-llan, And I go back an unsketching But a better-minded man. C. K. And I, too, have another debt To pay another way, For kindness shown by these good souls To one who’s far away, Even to this old colley dog, Who tracked the mountains o’er, For one who seeks strange birds and flowers On far Australia’s shore. Enough; _quantum sufficit_!