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Updated: May 7, 2025
Before he went to market in the morning Will had sought out Morva as she sat on her milking-stool, leaning her head on Daisy's flank, and milking her to the old refrain: "Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain! Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale!" "I want to see thee, Morva; wilt meet me beyond the Cribserth to-night? 'Twill be moonlight.
"Give me my little milking pail, For under the hawthorn in the vale The cows are gathering one by one, They know the time by the westering sun. Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain, Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale; Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen! I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
Round the walls stood shelves of the blue slaty stone of the neighbourhood, upon which were ranged the pans of golden cream, above them hanging the various dairy utensils of wood, polished black with long use and rubbing. Morva's good spirits had returned, for she hummed as she rubbed her curds: "Troodi! Troodi! come down from the mountain, Troodi! Troodi! up from the dale!
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