'There is not much to see in the town, I admit,' said I, 'but the scenery about it is beautiful: what mountains!' 'Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid, the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that near Llangollen?' 'Then,' said I, 'there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The Llangollen people can show nothing like that.' Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said: 'I see you have been here before, sir.' 'No,' said I, 'never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in books, both Welsh and English.' 'You have, sir,' said Tom. 'Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-learned a gentleman in our house. The Tomen Bala has puzzled many a head. What do the books which mention it say about it, your honour?' 'Very little,' said I, 'beyond mentioning it; what do the people here say of it?' 'All kinds of strange things, your honour.' 'Do they say who built it?' 'Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over a dead king by his people. The truth is, nobody here knows who built it, or anything about it, save that it is a wonder. Ah, those people of Llangollen can show nothing like it.' * * * * * The strength of the ox, The wit of the fox, And the leveret's speed Full oft to oppose To their numerous foes, The Rommany need. Our horses they take, Our waggons they break, And ourselves they seize, In their prisons to coop, Where we pine and droop, For want of breeze. When the dead swallow The fly shall follow O'er Burra-panee, Then we will forget The wrongs we have met And forgiving be. * * * * *