· AIR-" The Men of Harlech."
Who is he, with eye dark gleaming,
Visage wild, yet noble seeming,
As the fount of life, fast streaming,
Rolls its purple tide?

Lo! in anguish lying,
Fleet his soul is flying,
Yet still is seen

His warlike mien,
Like some hero dying.
Cymru, 'tis thy Prince expiring,
Bravest of thy race retiring,
Fame no more his bosom firing:
Thy last hope and pride!

Near to where yon torrent rushes
Great Llywelyn's life-drop gushes,
Ebbing fast, though death scarce crushes
His unconquer'd fire!
Still for Cymru beating,
His heart's pulse is fleeting,
Nor Saxon spear †,

That rankles near,

E'er can quell its greeting.
Foes, and foe-like friends, despising,
Nought but Cymru's freedom prising,
Still for her in hope uprising,

His last sighs expire.'

The writer of this song has also prepared the account of the Origin of the Bardic Sessions, to which we have already alluded; and in a note to which he observes that the indiscriminate massacre of the bards, generally imputed to Edward, seems to be a mere fiction. At least, we find no authentic notice of it in the Welsh poets, who lived after that period, and who would have been the first to record such a deed of atrocity, if there had been any foundation for it.' This is a candid admission on the part of our Welsh brethren, and tends to some redemption of the memory of the Saxon king from great obloquy.

The funds of this Society do not appear to be very flourishing, and we recommend it to more extensive patronage; since its object seems not only quite unobjectionable, but laudably tending

The Wye, or Edw, in the neighbourhood of one of which rivers Llywelyn is reported to have been slain (in 1282). Tradition appropriates the event to the latter.'

Warrington says, that Adam de Francton plunged a spear into Llywelyn's body.'

It is generally allowed that the fate of Llywelyn was owing to the treachery of some of his own countrymen, who betrayed him into the hands of his enemies. See an interesting account of his last moments in Warrington's Hist. of Wales, vol. ii. p. 270.'

to

to the preservation of antient history, literature, and instrumental poetry, if we may be allowed the phrase.

Art. 18. Blossoms of Anecdote and Wit, or Mirth for the Parlour. 12mo. pp. 379. 7s. Boards. Baldwin and Co. 1823. "Of making many (jest) books there is no end;" and those who have been accustomed to turn them over, and are in general miscellaneous readers, will seldom find much that to them is new in any fresh compilation of the sort. They will, at the same time, too commonly have occasion to censure the editors of such publications for introducing jests and anecdotes that are salacious, though not with Attic salt, and which render the books unfit for a parlour-table. Praise is due, therefore, to the present compiler for having determined to exclude all matters of this kind; and he is justified in the confidence with which he offers his work as a parlour-companion, the most attentive care having been exerted to admit only such articles as shall be conducive to harmless pleasure, or to the improvement of the mind.' This merit he may claim. How far his readers will compliment him on the novelty of his matter will depend on the extent of their own researches, and the goodness of their memory. For our part, obliged as we are to read every thing, we cannot say that on this occasion we have met with many new acquaintances: but some we have, and others we have been pleased to see again. As we always enliven our pages with a few quotations from these collections, so shall we now gather a handful or two of blossoms, without fearing to diminish the editor's crop of fruit.

To shew that the volume may tend, as it professes, to the improvement of the mind,' we quote this moral lesson:

"How to be always easy, or the right Use of the Eyes.

An Italian bishop struggled through great difficulties without repining, and met with much opposition in discharge of his episcopal function, without ever betraying the least impatience. An intimate friend of his, who admired those virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day asked the prelate if he could communicate the secret of being always easy? "Yes," replied the old man, "I can teach you my secret, and with great facility; it consists in nothing more than making a right use of my eyes.' His friend urged him to explain himself." Most willingly," returned the bishop: "in whatever state I am, I first of all look up to heaven, and remember that my principal business here is to prepare for my journey there: I then look down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to be interred: I then look abroad into the world, and observe what multitudes there are, who, in all respects, are more unhappy than myself. Thus I learn where true happiness is placed, where all our cares must end, and how very little reason I have to repine, or complain." "

We do not recollect the following anecdote of regal acuteness: 16 When Moliere, the comic poet, died, the Archbishop of Paris' would not let his body be buried in consecrated ground.

The

king, being informed of this, sent for the archbishop, and expostulated with him about it; but finding the prelate inflexibly obstinate, his majesty-asked, how many feet deep the consecrated ground reached? This question coming by surprise, the archbishop replied, About eight. "Well," answered the king, “I find there's no getting the better of your scruples; therefore, let his grave be dug twelve feet deep, that's four below your consecrated ground, and let him be buried there."'

The figure of St. George and the Dragon, on the new gold coin called a Sovereign, is thus drolly criticized, in verse:

St. George one day went out

To give the Dragon a bout;

Of his clothes he was careful enough,
So he stripp'd himself to his buff;
He did not put on his armour,

For St. George was no alarmer;

But his wife made him take her cloak,

"For," said she, " to take cold is no joke."
So he started, but when he came near,

He found he'd forgot his spear;

Then he pluck'd from a hedge a stake,
And the Dragon began to quake;

St. George he drew his arm back,
To give the Dragon a whack;

Then the Dragon fell down and shamm'd sick,
But St. George so ill manag'd his stick,
That he prick'd his horse in the flanks;
"Oho!" said the horse, "no thanks!"

So up his head he whaps,

And hit St. George in the chops;

And beat his face to a jelly,

That whether it were face or no, none can tell ye.'

The droll effect of Music' is thus exemplified:

The effect of music on the senses was oddly and wonderfully verified, during a late court-mourning. A taylor had a great number of black suits, which were to be finished in a short space of time. Among his workmen there was a fellow who was always singing Rule Britannia, and the rest of the journeymen joined in the chorus. The master made his observations, and found that the slow time of the tune retarded the work; in consequence he engaged a blind fiddler, and placing him near the workshop, made him play the lively tune of Nancy Dawson. This had the proper effect the taylors' elbows moved obedient to the melody, and the clothes were sent home within the prescribed period.'

A very good Irish bull occurs at p. 326., and a song full of bulls at p. 188. We take the former:

An English gentleman being taken ill of the yellow fever at Jamaica, a lady who had married in that island indirectly hinted to him, in the presence of an Irish physician that attended him, the propriety of making his will, in a country where people are

so apt to die. The physician thinking his judgment called in question, tartly replied, "Faith, madam, I wish you would tell me that country where people do not die, and I would go and end my days there.""

A punning song, derived from the London Magazine,' may please those who love quibbles.

Young Ben he was a nice young man,

A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint;

That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.

Come, girl, said he, hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me:

For when your swain is in our boat
A boatswain he will be.

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,

She roused and found she only was

A coming to herself.

And is he gone, and is he gone?

She cried, and wept out-right:
Then I will to the water-side,
And see him out of sight.

A waterman came up to her,
Now young woman, said he;
If you weep on so, you will make,
Eye-water in the sea.

Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow;

And her woe began to run afresh,

As if she had said "Gee woe."

Says he they've only taken him
To the tender-ship you see;
The tender, cried poor Sally Brown,
What a hard-ship that must be!
'O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;

But, oh! I'm not a fishwoman,
And so I cannot swim.

Alas,

Alas, I was not born beneath

"The virgin and the scales,"
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales.

Now Ben had sailed to many a place,
That's underneath the world ;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all the sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on:
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow.

Then reading on his 'bacco-box,
He heaved a heavy sigh;
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing All's Well,
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

His death which happen'd in his birth,

At forty odd befell;

They went and told it the sexton,

And the sexton toll'd the bell.'

Captain Fluellen's well-known description of the numbers of the French army, before the battle of Agincourt, is here (page 99.) put into the mouth of Charles XII. of Sweden, at the battle of Narva. What is the authority for this? We stand up for Fluellen; and the editor must eat a leek if he has robbed the gallant Welsh

man.

Art. 19. The Art of valuing Rents and Tillages; wherein is explained the Manner of valuing the Tenant's Right on entering and quitting Farms, in Yorkshire and the adjoining Counties. The whole is adapted for the Use of Landlords, Land Agents, Appraisers, Farmers, and Tenants. By J. S. Bayldon, Land Agent and Appraiser. 8vo. pp. 187. 7s. Boards. Longman and Co. 1823.

A work of this description is scarcely cognizable by a literary tribunal: but, among the many productions relating to agriculture which are daily issuing from the press, we are not aware of any which exactly corresponds with the present. A landlord when he wants to let a farm, and a tenant before he hires it, will each employ his own agent, perhaps, to value the rent and tillages, to fix on the course of cropping, the covenants, &c. When they com