I am somewhat drunk, but though I am a poor stone-mason, a private in the militia, and not so sober as I should be, I can repeat more of the songs of the Eos than any man alive, however great a gentleman, however sober--more than Sir Watkin, more than Colonel Biddulph himself." He then began to repeat what appeared to be poetry, for I could distinguish the rhymes occasionally, though owing to his broken utterance it was impossible for me to make out the sense of the words.

Feeling a great desire to know what verses of Huw Morris the intoxicated youth would repeat, I took out my pocket-book and requested Jones, who was much better acquainted with Welsh pronunciation, under any circumstances, than myself, to endeavour to write down from the mouth of the young fellow any verses uppermost in his mind.

Jones took the pocket-book and pencil and went to the window, followed by the young man scarcely able to support himself.

Here a curious scene took place, the drinker hiccuping up verses, and Jones dotting them down, in the best manner he could, though he had evidently great difficulty to distinguish what was said to him.
At last, methought, the young man said--"There they are, the verses of the Nightingale, on his death-bed." I took the book and read aloud the following lines beautifully descriptive of the eagerness of a Christian soul to leave its perishing tabernacle, and get to Paradise and its Creator:-- "Myn'd i'r wyl ar redeg, I'r byd a beryi chwaneg, I Beradwys, y ber wiw deg, Yn Enw Duw yn union deg." "Do you understand those verses ?" said the man on the settle, a dark swarthy fellow with an oblique kind of vision, and dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat.
"I will translate them," said I; and forthwith put them into English--first into prose and then into rhyme, the rhymed version running thus:-- "Now to my rest I hurry away, To the world which lasts for ever and aye, To Paradise, the beautiful place, Trusting alone in the Lord of Grace"-- "Well," said he of the pepper-and-salt, "if that isn't capital I don't know what is." A scene in a public-house, yes! but in a Welsh public-house.

Only think of a Suffolk toper repeating the death-bed verses of a poet; surely there is a considerable difference between the Celt and the Saxon..