Place on my breast, if still you doubt, Your hand, but no rough pressure making, And, if you listen, you'll find out, How throbs a little heart when breaking.

Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize; Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me, And I full as comely as any they see!

From this world all in time must move, 'Tis known to every simple swain; And 'twere as well to die of love As any other mortal pain.

'Tis noised abroad, where'er one goes, And I am fain to hear, That no one in the country knows The girl to me most dear: And, 'tis so true, that scarce I wot, If I know well myself or not.

What noise and scandal fill my ear, One half the world to censure p.r.o.ne!

Of all the faults that thus I hear, None yet have told me of their own.

Varied the stars, when nights are clear, Varied are the flowers of May, Varied th' attire that women wear, Truly varied too are they.

To rest to-night I'll not repair, The one I love reclines not here: I'll lay me on the stone apart, If break thou wilt, then break my heart.

In praise or blame no truth is found, Whilst specious lies do so abound; Sooner expect a tuneful crow, Than man with double face to know.

My speech until this very day, Was ne'er so like to run astray: But now I find, when going wrong, My teeth of use to atop my tongue.

TRIBANAU.

[The editor of the "Cambro Briton" (J. H. Parry, Esq., father of Mr.

Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The following translations will serve to give the English reader a faint, though perhaps, but a faint idea of the Welsh _Tribanau_, which are most of them, like these, remarkable for their quaintness, as well as for the epigrammatic point in which they terminate."]

No cheat is it to cheat the cheater, No treason to betray the traitor, Nor is it theft, I'm not deceiving, To thieve from him who lives by thieving.

Three things there are that ne'er stand still; A pig upon a high-topt hill, A snail the naked stones among, And Tom the Miller's rattling tongue.

Three things 'tis difficult to scan; The day, an aged oak, and man: The day is long, the oak is hollow, And man--he is a two fac'd fellow.

PART V. THE SENTIMENTAL.

THE ROSE OF LLAN MEILEN.

BY DAFYDD AB GWILYM.

Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever in moments of pleasure we met; You bid me remember no longer a name The muse hath already companioned with fame; And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose, Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows Of each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.

Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay, Enduring at most but a long summer's day, Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set, I might have forgotten that ever we met.

But long as Eryri its peak shall expose To the sunshine of summer, or winter's cold snows, My love will endure for Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.

Then bid me not, maiden, remember no more A name which affection and love must adore, 'Till affection and love become one with the breath Of life in the silent oblivion of death, Perchance in that hour of the spirit's repose, But not until then, when the dark eyelids close, Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.

MY NATIVE COT.

The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mountain side, The stream which flowed beside the door Adown the mossy slope doth glide; The holly tree that hid one end Is shaken by the moaning wind, Like as it was in days of yore When 'neath its boughs I shade did find.

Clear is the sky of morning tide, Bright is the season time of youth, Before the mid-day clouds appear, And fell deceit obliterates truth; Black tempest in the evening lowers, The rain descends with whirlwind force, And long ere midnight's hour nears Full is the heart of deep remorse.

Where are my old companions dear, Who in those days with me did play?

The green graves in the parish yard Will soon the mournful answer say: Farewell therefore ye pleasures light, Which in my youth I did enjoy, Dark evening's come with all its trials, And these the bliss of life destroy.

UNDER THE ORCHARD TREE.

Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid that is fairer than all its rich fruit, And little I doubt if I stood beneath them, To which of the objects I'd offer my suit.

'Twas little I thought when I was a stripling While gazing upon the apples so sweet, I ever should see beneath the green branches An object which yet I much sooner would greet.

Thy father was careful about his rich orchard, To fence well and strong lest the neighbours should stray, For now there doth, wander amid its green arbours A maiden more lovely than aught in the way; Its fruit I would leave to the one who may wish it, But her, who moves so majestic between, I'd steal from the orchard without a misgiving, And never would touch its apples so green.

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.