Twm, disguised as a woman, sings ballads at Cardigan fair. Is alarmed on seeing an unexpected person. Takes a sudden departure from thence.

Twm at length reached the end of his dreary journey, the latter part of which was rendered more cheerful from having fallen into company with a party of drovers, who gallantly treated the apparent fair one with bread and cheese and ale. Thus he entered Cardigan in comparative good spirits, and prepared to commence his whimsical new vocation. Although naturally bold, and more full of confidence than beseemed the modesty of youth, it was not without considerable efforts in struggling with some remains of diffidence that he at length ventured to sing in the public street; but the beer which he had drank was strong, and his voice he knew was almost unequalled in the county of Cardigan; and with this persuasion he thought it foolish to hesitate. He fixed himself in rather an obscure part of the fair, but his musical voice and humorous execution of a comic song soon drew a crowd about him, and put his ballads in speedy request.

According to the general custom with street melodists, he introduced each song with a whimsical argument of its matter, in a strain of drollery that set the grinning rustics in high glee: “Here my merry men and maidens,” quoth he, “is a pretty song about a young damsel, who was taken in by a false lover, that courted her only for what he could get, and having wheedled her out of her heart and money, then ran away and left her to wear the willow.”

THE SLIGHTED MAID’S LAMENT [134]

1

In comfort and in credit
By the side of Pen-y-vole
I liv’d;—all knew and said it,
None could my will controul;
Until a worthless lover
Did try my heart to move,
Ah soon my joys were over,
I listened to his love.

2

From far he travell’d to me,
Full many and many a night,
I thought he came to woo me,
My heart was all delight:
My cash he thought of gaining,
It was not me he sought,
E’er moaning and complaining
For clothes—and clothes I bought.

3

A pair of shoes I placed him
Between his soles and ground,
With stockings then I graced him,
With hat his head I crown’d;
Red garters then I bought him,
At fair the best I saw,
To bind his hose, od rot him!
Instead of bands of straw.

4

I bought him leather breeches
Strong as a barley sack,
And laid out half my riches
To clothe the beggar’s back:
I gave him money willing,
(Vexation now ubraids!)
With which the thankless villain
Soon treated other maids.

5

When thus he had bereft me
Of cash, and ah! my heart,
The cruel rover left me
It grieved me then to part:
Those clothes will rend in tatters,
They cannot last him long,
A curse attend such matters,
False lover’s curse is strong!

6

His coat will rend in creases,
His stockings break in holes,
His breeches go to pieces,
His shoes part from their soles:
His hair, like garden carrot,
Full soon will want a hat,
How soon, indeed I care not,
The devil care for that.

This pleased his auditors so well that he was soon left without a copy of it, on which, he began another, preluding it with the observation “Now this my friends is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymru and go to London, from which, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, flummery, nor anything else there fit for a christian people.”

When a wild rural Welsh boy I ran o’er the hills,
And sprang o’er the hedges, the gates, brooks, and rills.
The high oak I climb’d for the nest of the kite,
And plung’d in the river with lively delight!
Ah who then so cheerful, so happy as me,
At I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brindee.

How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake,
Fearful of nought but the never-seen snake,
And gather’d brown nuts from the copses around,
While ev’ry bush echoed with harmony’s sound;
Oh gladness then thrill’d me! I bounded as free
As a hart o’er the lawn through the meads of Brindee.

Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm,
How kindly was tender’d the new milk so warm,
O’er her best loaf as butter or honey she’d spread,
The farm wife so friendly would stroke my white head,
And sue that she shortly again should see me
Whenever my rambles led forth from Brindee.

How of I have I run with my Strawberry wreath [136a]
To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath,
And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen, [136b]
Oh! I still think how joyously sung little Gwen
The old folks oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we,
The Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brindee.

At the fair of Dyvonnock, o’ertaken by night,
Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light,
The wandering spirit, the hobgobling fell,
Of which cottage hen-wives so fearfully tell:
I’ve ran, with my eyes shut, ghosts dreading to see
Prayed, whistled, or sang as I flew to Brindee.Pleasure and innocence hand in hand went,
My deeds ever blameless, my heart e’er content,
Unknown to ambition, and free from all care,
A stranger to sorrow, remorse, or despair;
Oh bless’d were those days! long departed from me,
Far far’s my loved Cambria! far far is Brindee.

This was not so successful as the former, but Twm, nothing daunted, sung the following which he called a sequel to the last.

ROSY GWEN.

Rosy Gwen, rosy Gwen,
Beloved of maids, beloved of men!
Aye, dearly loved of grave and gay,
Of sire, sage, and matron grey!
In youth’s early day—ah what cheer’d me then!
’Twas her voice so sweet,
Her person neat,
Her form so sleek,
Her spirit meek,
And the cherry-merry cheek of Rosy Gwen.

Gentle girl, gentle girl,
Coral lipp’d, with teeth of pearl,
On either cheek a vivid rose.
And raven tresses graced thy brows!
Ah thou wert my love and my playmate then:
Happy lass of smiles,
Unversed in wiles
Of guileless breast—
Of minds the best,
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen!

Years have flown, years have flown,
And Gwenny thou’rt a woman grown.
While Time, that bears for most a sting,
Has fann’d thy beauties with his wing;
Yet brighter, thou canst not be, than when
O’er the mountain steep
Thou drov’st thy sheep
And sang in glee
A child with me.
Oh my cherry-merry cheek’d young Rosy Gwen.

He gave them next a love canzonet, of two verses; the first slow and mournful, and the last with contrasting animation and cheerfulness.

Her cheek was a rose lowly crush’d by the dew,
Now bleach’d by despair to the lily’s pale hue
For the death of young Morgan the brave;
Fame widely reported sea-mews scream’d his knell.
As in a dread sea-fight with glory he fell,
And was buried beneath thy salt wave.

But false was the tale, for a victor was he,
Triumphant return’d from the wild roaring sea,
Now to seek with his dear maid repose;
He flew to his Sina with extacy’s zest,
Enraptured he press’d the lorn maid to his breast.
And then kiss’d off the dew from the rose.

The two last were but tolerated, and the singer soon found that a merry strain was most congenial to their fancies. He therefore gave them the old and popular duet of “Hob y deri dando,” rendered more comical by his singing alternately shrill and gruff, for male and female’s parts.

HOB Y DERI DANDO [138]

Ivor. The summer storm is on the mountain,
Hob y deri dando, my sweet maid!

Gweno. And foul the stream, though bright the fountain,
Hob y deri dando, for the shade.

Ivor. Let my mantle love protect thee,
Gentle Gweno dear;

Gweno. Ivor kind will ne’er neglect me,
Faithful far and near:

Both. Through life the hue of first love true,
Will never never fade.

Ivor. The rain is past, the clouds are gone too,
Hob o’r deri dando, far they spread;

Gweno. The lark is up, and bright the sun too,
Hob o’r deri dando, on the mead;

Ivor. Thus may the frowns of life pass over,
Happy then our lot,

Gweno. And the smile of peace be bright as ever
In our humble cot.

Both. Through life the hue of first love true
Will never never fade.

Having sung the last thrice over, he sold about a dozen ballads; and was about to treat his auditors with the old and national song of NÔs Galan, or New Year’s Eve, when, to his great surprise, the malignant visage of Parson Evans presented itself before him.

Judging of our hero’s sex by his assumed attire, several young men in the course of the day, offered their treats of cake and ale, some of which was accepted; and presuming on that circumstance, they amusingly put in their claims to further notice, and seemed inclined to quarrel, as for a sweetheart.

Thus possessed of beaux and champions, Twm resolved to employ them in a new scheme of vengeance on the unpopular parson. “You see that old fellow in black,” said he, directing their attention to him as he passed, “he is a bum-bailiff, and the greatest villain in all the country I come from; and at this very moment I’ll be bound for it, he is hunting out some poor fellow to put him in prison. He wanted to be a lover of mine, but only intended to ruinate me; but if he loved me ever so much I would not have had him if his skin was stuffed with diamonds. The villainous old catchpole! it is to him that I owe all my misfortunes; refusing him for a sweetheart, he grew as spiteful as a snake, and by telling a parcel of falsehoods he got me turned out of my place without a character, so that I am now brought to this—to sing ballads in the street.” Here, assuming a whimpering tone, Twm was compelled to smother a powerful fit of laughter, which emotion was taken for sobbing, and consequently drew much on the sympathy of those now addressed; but suddenly withdrawing the apron that veiled his features, he exclaimed, with the vehemence of a young termagant, “I’d give the world to see that old fellow tossed in a blanket!” Mark Antony’s effort of eloquence to rouse the Roman citizens to avenge the death of CÆsar, was not more effective than our hero’s appeal.

With a natural hatred to a bailiff, and as natural a predilection for the smiles of a handsome young woman, being “full of distempering draughts” and ripe for a freak, their zeal became inflamed to a ferment, each felt himself the leading hero to avenge the wrongs of the fair ballad singer, in the manner suggested by herself. One of the young men, a native of the town and son to the innkeeper, immediately procured a blanket, when, watching their opportunity as the supposed bailiff passed along, one tripped up his heels, while the rest received him in the extended blanket, and tossed him most vigorously in the air for about ten minutes. Exhausted at length with their labours, and allured by the fair handful of silver displayed by their victim, they accepted his bribe and desisted, each venting his jest on the crest-fallen Evans, “hoping it would be a warning not to persecute a poor friendless girl again.”

The knot of swains now separated, and ran in different directions to avoid being recognized as the perpetrators of the “freak,” but soon met again at an appointed place at the back of the town, where they had left our hero, between the empty carts of the ware venders.

Great was their dismay on discovering, after a long search in various parts of the fair, that the fair ballad-singer was no where to be found. Here was a general smelling of a trick put upon them, and consequent “curses on all jilting ballad-singers” uttered by the unlucky clods.

It occurred to one bright youth named Johnny Wapstraw, that he had entrusted his best holiday coat to the custody of the injured damsel, that he might toss the “catchpole” with the greater vigour; but on ascertaining the precise spot where he had left her, he found her complete feminine attire made into a bundle and fastened to a cart with a band of straw, left as a love-gift for him, while she kept his coat as a similar token of affection; having inscribed with chalk on the side of the cart “An exchange is no robbery.”