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To the Editot of the Cardiff…

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To the Editot of the Cardiff and Merthyr Guardian. Sm,- William Hopkin, who wrote the song of Maescadlawr, was, by his calling, a tiler and plasterer. Though his trade was humble-not so his poetic genius. It is doubtful whether he was born in the parish of Llan- gynwyd. He was buried in the Churchyard of that parish, under the western yew tree, where a headstone formerly indicated the spot. About six or eight years ago some Goth made use of this headstone as a foundation for a neighbouring tomb The wretch deserved to have been indicted. On this stone was inscribed (it is said) the following:- "In memory of WILLIAM HOPKIN, of this parish, who died the 19th of August, 1741, aged 10 years. Dyma le goleu y gwelwch—r wy'n gorwedd, Dan gaerau pob tristwch: Os tirion, chwi ystyriwch, Lleyg a Hen llawen a'n llwch. Nid yw'r holl-vyd, hyvryd hedd, A'i vwriad ond overedd." The parish register thus records his sepulture-" Gu- mus Hopkin sepultus fuit vicessimo die Augusti 741." And 40 years prior to this is the following record « Gulielmu3 filius Hopkini Thomas et Dianse Harry baptus. fuit 24to. 9 bris 1700." The custom of the Welsh, as is well known, was, and still is, frequently to take the Christian name of the father as the surname of the child; and this baptism may be that of the bard. He, unfor- fortunately, fell in love with a lady far his superior in rank-a daugh* of the Thomases, of Cefn Ydva she returned his love; and being compelled to marry another, she lost her reason. Tales, teeming with romance, are I related by the hill folk of the attachment of this lady and her humble lover. The love songs of William Hopkin o "the Maid of Cefn Ydva" are excessively beautiful; and it is a subject of regret that many of them are now nearly lost. In the collection of the Ancient National Airs of Gwent and Morganwg, by Miss Jane Williams, of Aberpergwm, page 38-9, appears an amatory poem, universally attributed, among his native hills, to William Hopkin, in honour of "the Lady of Cefn Ydva." The sentiment of this song is exceedingly simple-purely Welsh-and of that kind which cannot be translated literally without sinking to common-place, and to para- phrase which would be to destroy its peculiar beauty. Perfectly conscious of this, the song, as given by Miss William, is subjoined, with an attempt to give it in English words adapted to the old Welsh air. BUGEILIA'R GWENITH GWYN. Mi sydd vachgen ieuangc fol, Yn caru'n ol vy fansi: Mi yn bugeilio'r gwenith gwyn, Ac eraill yn ei vedi. 0 pa'm na ddewi ar vy ol Ryw ddydd ar ol ei gilydd ? Gwaith 'r wy'n dy wel'd, y veinir vach, 0 glanach lanach beunydd. Glanach, lanach wyt bob dydd, Neu vi sy'm fydd yn folach: Er mwyn y Gwr a wnaeth dy wedd, Gwna im' drugaredd bellach. O! cwyn dy ben, gwel occo draw, Rho imi'th law, Gwen dirion, Gwaith yn dy vynwes, berth ei thro, Mae allwedd do vy nghalon. Mi godais heddyw gyda'r wawr, Gan vrysio'n vawr vy lludded, Fel cawn gusanu llun dy droed Vu 'rhyd y coed yn cerdded. 0 cwyn vy mhen o'r galar maith A serchus iaith gwarineb; Waith mwy na'r byd, i'r mab alth gar, Yw golwg ar dy wyneb. Tra vo dw'r yn y mor hallt, A thra vo 'ngwallt yn tyvu, A thra vo calon yn vy mron, Mi vydda'n fyddlon iti. 0 dywed imi'r gwir dan gel, A rho dan set attebion, P' un ai myvi neu arall, Gwen, Sydd orau gan dy galon. WATCHING THE BLOOMING WHEAT. A simple, youthful swain am I, Who lore at fancy's pleasure I fondly watch the blooming wheat, And others reap the treasure. Oh! wherefore still despise my suit ? Why pining keep thy lover 1 For some new charm, thou matchless fair, I day by day discover. Each day reveals some new-born grace, Or does fond faith deceive me ? In love to Hill who formed thy face, With pity now receive me. Oh! raise thine eyes-one look bestow; Yield, yield thine hand, my fairest; For in thy bosom, witching maid, My heart's sole key thou bearest. In deepest woe this day I rose, And sped at morning's gloaming, To kiss each spot where thy fair foot Had in yon grove been roaming. Oh t raise my head, bowed down by grief, With kindest accents speaking Than worlds more dear is thy one glance To him whose heart is breaking. While hair adorns my aching brow, This heart will beat sincerely: Whilst ocean rolls its briny flow, So long I'll love thee dearly. Oh! tell the truth! in secret tell, And under seal discover, If it be I-or who is blest As thy pure heart's best lover. Yours truly, Llan. Yicarage, 6th Oct., 1845. R. & M.

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