"Sion Tudor," I replied.
"There you are wrong," said the man in grey; "his name was not Sion Tudor but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob.

Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at." "You are right," said I, "you are right.

Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon." "Dead," said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, "they are neither dead nor ever will be.

There are plenty of poets in Anglesey--why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them and not the least--pooh, what was I going to say?
twelve there are, genuine Anglesey poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native land.

When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but just over the bridge.