comes."

"You do quite right," said I. "Has your master written any poetry
lately?"

"Sir!" said the damsel staring at me.

"Any poetry," said I, "any pennillion?"

"No, sir," said the damsel; "my master is a respectable man, and
would scorn to do anything of the kind."

"Why," said I, "is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?"

"My master, sir, is an innkeeper," said the damsel; "but as for the
other, I don't know what you mean."

"A bard," said I, "is a prydydd, a person who makes verses -
pennillion; does not your master make them?"

"My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman,
and would scorn to make such profane stuff."

"Well," said I, "he told me he did within the last two hours. I
met him at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me
into the public-house, where we had a deal of discourse."

"You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?" said the damsel.

"Yes," said I, "and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a