At length I began repeating Black Robin's ode in praise of the island, or rather my own translation of it, executed more than thirty years before, which amongst others, contains the following lines:-- "Twelve sober men the muses woo, Twelve sober men in Anglesey, Dwelling at home, like patriots true, In reverence for Anglesey." "Oh," said I, after I had recited that stanza, "what would I not give to see one of those sober patriotic bards, or at least one of their legitimate successors, for by this time no doubt, the sober poets, mentioned by Black Robin, are dead.

That they left legitimate successors who can doubt?
for Anglesey is never to be without bards.

Have we not the words, not of Robin the Black, but Huw the Red to that effect?
"'Brodir, gnawd ynddi prydydd; Heb ganu ni bu ni bydd.' "That is: a hospitable country, in which a poet is a thing of course.

It has never been and will never be without song." Here I became silent, and presently arrived at the side of a little dell or ravine, down which the road led, from east to west.

The northern and southern sides of this dell were precipitous.