He was great in satire, great in humour, but when he pleased could be greater in pathos than in either; for his best piece is an elegy on Barbara Middleton, the sweetest song of the kind ever written.

From his being born on the banks of the brook Ceiriog, and from the flowing melody of his awen or muse, his countrymen were in the habit of calling him Eos Ceiriog, or the Ceiriog Nightingale.
So John Jones and myself set off across the Berwyn to visit the birthplace of the great poet Huw Morris.

We ascended the mountain by Allt Paddy.

The morning was lowering and before we had half got to the top it began to rain.

John Jones was in his usual good spirits.
Suddenly taking me by the arm he told me to look to the right across the gorge to a white house, which he pointed out.
"What is there in that house ?" said I.
"An aunt of mine lives there," said he.
Having frequently heard him call old women his aunts, I said, "Every poor old woman in the neighbourhood seems to be your aunt." "This is no poor old woman," said he, "she is cyfoethawg iawn, and only last week she sent me and my family a pound of bacon, which would have cost me sixpence-halfpenny, and about a month ago a measure of wheat." We passed over the top of the mountain, and descending the other side reached Llansanfraid, and stopped at the public-house where we had been before, and called for two glasses of ale.