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:-