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 attends such matters, False lovers curse is strong!
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!
His listeners appreciated his first song so much that all his copies were soon disposed of; so he selected another, before singing which he said: “Now this, my friends, is about a Welsh boy, who was so foolish as to leave old Cymry and go to London, from which place, I warrant you, he would have been glad enough to return, as they have neither leeks, cheese, nor 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 ardent delight! Ah, who then so cheerful, so happy as me, As I skipp’d through the woodlands and meads of Brandee?
How oft have I wander’d through swamp, hedge, or brake, While 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 Brandee.
Whenever I wander’d to some neighb’ring farm, How kindly was tendered 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 sure that she shortly again would see me Whenever my rambles led forth from Brandee.
How oft have I run with my strawberry wreath To rosy young Gwenny of fair Llwyn-y-neath, And help’d her to drive the white sheep to the pen! Oh! still I think how joyously sung little Gwen! The old folks, oft chuckling, vow’d sweet-hearts were we, Then Llwyn-y-neath maiden and boy of Brandee.
At the fair of Devynnock, o’ertaken by night, Returning, I’ve dreaded the corpse-candle light, The wandering spirit, the hobgoblin 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 Brandee.