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Cofeb leuan ü. Geirionydd.

0 BEN CYRN Y BRAIN

"TROAD Y RHOD."

--.0--Y Ciwrad.

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-0-- Y Ciwrad. [GAN GWRTHEYRN, Y.BalaJ. YN y flwyddyn 1734, ganwyd ail fab i John Lloyd, Ysw., Frondderw, Bala. Fe'i galwyd yn Evan—Evan Lloyd. Cafodd bob man- toision addysg, a dygwyd ef i fyny a'i olwg ar urddau eglwysig. Bu yn giwrad am beth amser yn Llundain, ac ar ol hynny cafodd Ficeriaeth Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd. Yr oedd yn fardd campus yn Gymraeg a Saesneg, ac yi-L gyfaill mawr i Churchill, Garri(-k,Wilkes, Coleman, ac i a-raryw o ddynion enwog ereill ei oes. Cyfansoddxxld bryddestaitt hirion, tua o 1000 o linellau bob un, ar The Powers of the Pen," "The Methodist," a "The Curate." Yn yr ail bryddest a nodwyd, sef The Meth- odist," ceir holl chwerwder erledigaotlrus yr oes fel wedi ei gyd-grynhoi. Ond rhannau o'i bryddest ar "The Curato" sydd wedi eyffnvrdd ysgrifennydd y llinellau hyn drymaf, ac yr wyf yn eu hanfon i'r BRYTHON, am eu bod yn resyn fod y fath wirioneddau grymus vn guddiedig oddiwrth y eyhoedd. Bu farw Evan Lloyd yn y flwyddyn 1776, ac ofe ond 42 mlwydd oed. Ye pursy Rectors overbearing crew Much hath the Curate to complain of you Much reason of complaint that you neglect To give his worth, and office, fair respect Forget he is your equal —often more- Unless you plume upon the money score. Yo wou'd be Masters, Tyrants,and wou'd have The Minister of Jesus be your slave And for the scanty pittance that you pay— Which scarce amounts to 1/6 a day- Expect the Curate shou'd all drudgery do, On errands run, or black your Honour's shoo; In his crape-livery at your table wait, Clean knives and forks, but never sit to eat. Thought of the Church, your common mother, born Brothers, you treat the brother's tie with And rarely, very rarely, condescend, [scorn, If fortune is his foe, to be his friend. Fye Fyo ye haughty Priests and is it so Ye have learnt Christ, to be a Brother's foe ? Mistake not, critic 'tis no rankling spite, No private quarrel urg'd my pen to write Against the Rector tribo--for, be it known, I ne'er received one insult from my own And many others, men of worthy note, Exceptions to her charge the Muse cou'd quote Who can amalgamate with chymic art, Tho Rector's income with the Curate's heart But they not need it—conscience will acquit And hold her shield against the darts of wit For let the scorner censure, fleer, and flout, If men are honest, they can find it out I am not to my private wrongs confin'd, But feel as man shou'd feel, for all mankind And there are Priests who can like Popes oppress From them th' indignant Muse demands redress. Behold Nugoso wriggling, shuffling on, A mere Church-puppet—an automaton In Orders note its tripping, mincing pace — Religion creams and mantles in its face 'Tis all Religion, from the top to toe But Milliners and Barbers made it so It wears Religion in the modish way, It brushes, starches, combs it every day For our prim Doctor is but such a saint As sign-post daubers o'er a brothel paint An effigy, a reverend bust, whose head Is but a Perriwig, and bronzed lead Whose orthodoxy lies in outward things, In beavors, cassocks, gowns, bands, gloves and rings: It shews its learning by its Doctor's Hood, And proves its goodness 'cause its cloatlis are good Preaches (nor think invention frames the lie) Its Christmas sermons on a Christmas-pye, Orthodox pudding next, and in the rear, (Salvation thrown aside) a good New year. Search but the North, the South, the West, the East, Of this great town, you'll find this pastry- priest Yet shall this ape of form, this fashion's fool, Protend to keep an Apostolic school ? Shall dare with insolent Rectorial pride, Its Curato, spite of all his virtues, chide, And scoffing, cry, You ne'er can find the way To heaven "—Why ?—" Your stockings are too gay, Your wig is not quite orthodoxly curl'd, To hope for favour in another world Your cassock is too rusty—and your gown Is, for the Court of Jesus,much too brown. Your band is not half starch enough, your hat Toofiorcely cocked, the apostles wore them fia t Pray, in your coat too worse than all the rest, God's not at home, sir, if the Priest's undrest. "Mond and reform, in cloaths, for no one goes To heav'n's gay court, except Canonic- beaux." It chatters, prattles, snivels, whines and cants, More tedious than a world of Maiden Aunts. (I barhau). ■ o——■

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