“Well,” said I, taking the glass, “thank God that our gloomy forebodings are not likely to be realised. Oes y byd i’r glôd Frythoneg! May Britain’s glory last as long as the world!” Then, looking for a moment at the ale, which was of a dark-brown colour, I put the glass to my lips, and drank. “Ah,” said the old church clerk, “I see you like it, for you have emptied the glass at a draught.” “It is good ale,” said I. “Good,” said the old gentleman rather hastily, “good; did you ever taste any so good in your life?” “Why, as to that,” said I, “I hardly know what to say; I have drunk some very good ale in my day. However, I’ll trouble you for another glass.” “O ho, you will,” said the old gentleman; “that’s enough; if you did not think it first-rate you would not ask for more. This,” said he, as he filled the glass again, “is genuine malt and hop liquor, brewed in a way only known, they say, to some few people in this place. You must, however, take care how much you take of it. Only a few glasses will make you dispute with your friends, and a few more quarrel with them. Strange things are said of what Llangollen ale made people do of yore; and I remember that when I was young and could drink ale, two or three glasses of the Llangollen juice of the barleycorn would make me—however, those times are gone by.” “Has Llangollen ale,” said I, after tasting the second glass, “ever been sung in Welsh? is there no englyn upon it?” “No,” said the old church clerk, “at any rate, that I am aware.” “Well,” said I, “I can’t sing its praises in a Welsh englyn, but I think I can contrive to do so in an English quatrain, with the help of what you have told me. What do you think of this?— “‘Llangollen’s brown ale is with malt and hop rife; ’Tis good; but don’t quaff it from evening till dawn; For too much of that ale will incline you to strife; Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn.’” “That’s not so bad,” said the old church clerk, “but I think some of our bards could have produced something better—that is, in Welsh; for example, old—. What’s the name of the old bard who wrote so many englynion on ale?” “Sion Tudor,” said I; “O yes; but he was a great poet. Ah, he has written some wonderful englynion on ale; but you will please to bear in mind that all his englynion are upon bad ale, and it is easier to turn to ridicule what is bad than to do anything like justice to what is good.”