The Welshman's Praise of Wales:
OR,
Shon ap Morgan's falling in Love with an English Lady in his Journey to London.
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I'S not come here to tauke of Prute,
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From whence the Welse does take hur Root;
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Nor tell long Pedigree of Prince Camber,
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Whose Linage would fill full a Shamber;
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Nor sing the Deeds of old Saint Davy,
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The Ursip of which would fill a Navy.
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But hark ye me now, for a liddel Tales
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Sall make great deal to the Credit of Wales:
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For hur will tudge your Ears,
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With the Praise of hur Thirteen Seeres.
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And make you as Clad and Merry,
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As Fourteen Pot of Perry.
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'Tis true was wear him Shirkin-Frieze,
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But what is that? we have store of Sheize;
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And Got is plenty of Coates-Milk,
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That sell him well will buy him Silk
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Enough, to make him fine to Quarrel,
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At Hereford Sizes in new Apparel,
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And get him as much green Melmet perhap,
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Sall give it a Face to his Monmouth-Cap,
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But then the Ore of Lemster,
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By Cot is Uver a Sempster;
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That when he is Spun or Did,
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Yet match him with her Thrid.
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Aull this the Backs now, let us tell ye
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Of some Provisions for the Belly;
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As Cid and Gote, and great Gote's Mother,
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And Runt and Cow and great Cows Uther:
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And once but taste on the Welse Mutton,
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Your English Seeps not worth a Button.
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And then for your Fisse, shall shoose it your Dish,
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Look but about and there's a Trout,
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A Salmon, Cor, or Chevin,
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Will feed you Six or Seven,
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As Taull Men as ea'er Swagger.
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With Welse Club and long Dagger.
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But all this while was never think
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A word in praise of our Welse Drink:
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Yet for aull that, is a Cup of Bragat,
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Aull England Seer may cast his Cap at.
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And what you say to Ale of Webley,
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Toudge him as well, you'll praise him Trebley;
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As well as Metheglin, or Syder, or Meath,
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Sall sake it your Dagger quite out o' the Seath.
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And Oate Cake of Guarthenion,
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With a goodly Leek or Onion,
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To give as sweet a rellis,
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As e'er did Harper Ellis.
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And yet is nothing now all this,
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If of our Musicks we do miss;
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With Harp and Pipes too, and the Croud,
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Must aull come in and tauke aloud,
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As loud as Bangu, Davys Bell,
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Of which is no doubt you have hear tell,
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As well as our louder Wrexam Organ,
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Or rumbling Rocks in the Seer of Glamorgan,
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Where look but in the Ground here,
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And you sall see a Sound there,
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That put her all togedder,
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Is sweet as Measure Pedder.
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A Modest Shentle when hur see,
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The great Laugh hur made on me,
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And fine Wink that hur send
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To hur, come to see hur Friend;
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Hur could not shoose, by Got apove,
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But was entangle in hur Love.
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A hundred a time hur was about
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To speak to hur, and leave hur out,
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But hur peing a Welsman porn,
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And therefore was think hur would hur scorn
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Was fear, hur think nothing petter,
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Than cram hur Love into a Letter,
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Hoping hur will no Ceptions take
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Unto hur Love for Country sake;
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For say hur be Welsman, what ten?
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Py Got, they all be Shentlemen,
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Was descend from Shoves nown Line,
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Par Humane, and par Divine,
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And from Venus that fair Goddess,
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And Twenty other Shentlepoddies:
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Hector Stout, and comely Paris,
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Arthur Prute, and King of Fayris,
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Was hur nown Cousins, all a Kin,
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We have the Powels Issue in;
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And for ought that hur can see,
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As goot Men as other Men pee.
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But what of that? Love is a Knave,
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Was make hur do what he would have;
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Was compel hur write the Rime,
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That ne'er was Writ before the time;
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And if he will not pity hur Pain,
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As Got shudge hur Soul sall ne'er Write again;
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For Love is like an Ague Fit,
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Was brin poor Welsman out of hur Wit,
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Till by hur Answer hur do know,
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Whether hur do Love her, ay or no.
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Hur has not been in England long,
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And canno speak the Englis Tongue;
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Put hur is hur Friend, and so hur will prove,
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Pray a send hur word, if hur can Love.
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