hines;
'Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.

'Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells,
And sister gentleness the bosom swells,
'Tis there where now the lovely lily grows
Beside the purling brook that ever flows.

There's one, and only one to cheer my soul,
To heal my anguish, and my grief control;
'Tis she who did the foster-boy impart
To nestle deeply in my restless heart.

And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay
For time and nurture, anguish and delay,
Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see
Then must I from her arms for ever flee.

PENNILLION.

[Pennillion singing formed quite a feature in the eisteddfodau of the
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The
pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air
which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set
forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which
was quite a Welsh institution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in
use except at eisteddfodau.]

Many an apple will you find
In hue and bloom so cheating,
That, search what grows beneath its rind,
It is not worth your eating.
Ere closes summer's sultry hour,
This fruit will be the first to sour.

* * * * * *

Those wild birds see, how bless'd are they!
Where'er their pleasure leads they roam,
O'er seas and mountains far away,
Nor chidings fear when they come home.

* * * * *

Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all,
With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small,
With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright,
Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!

* * * * *

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 f