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John was a highly-intelligent lad, spoke Welsh and English fluently, could read, as he told me, both languages, and had some acquaintance with the writings of Twm o'r Nant, as he showed by repeating the following lines of the carter poet, certainly not the worst which he ever wrote: "Twm or Nant mae cant a'm galw, Tomas Edwards yw fy enw,"
"Don't crow quite yet, old chap," thought I to myself, and putting my hand into my pocket, I took out a penny, and offering it to the child said: "Now, small man, Peth yw y enw y lle hwn?" Instantly the boy's face became intelligent, and putting out a fat little hand, he took the ceiniog and said in an audible whisper, "Waen y Bwlch."
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."
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