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Nodion o Fanceinion.

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o Y Ciwrad.

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o Y Ciwrad. [GAN GWRTHEYRN, Y tBALAJ, II. YN y rhannau canlynol o'r bryddest, dia" grifia Evan Lloyd y diystyrwch a deflir ar y Ciwrad gan yr Undertaker, y Wardeniaid, a'r Clochydd With spirit thus dilated, how it galls To hear how pert the Undertaker calls Loud his complaint that he is made to wait Five minutes, hearse and coaches at the gate, By a thread-bare fellow. He, forsooth, wou'd have Curates, like ye N trees, growing to the grave My breath and blood—it is too much to bear The vile mechanic's domineering air Note him—he trafficks in his brethren's dust; If his good neighbours will not die, he must Broker to death, and Tailor to the dead, To dress the body when the soul is fled Yet are this reptile's taunts so rude, so loud, You'd swear he sold the Curate with the shroud. Hence, to thy shop—prepare the worm his feast, Nor dare proffane the office of the Priest. Heart-galling treatment i yet is this not all, Not half the wrongs that to the Curate fall Others as sorely hurt his lib'ral soul, Whose honest pride ill brooks usurp'd contronl The Wardens, lo uncivil and unbred Unlick'd, untaught, un-all-things, butun-fed When Sunday comes these boors wou'd fain be beaux, But can't put on good manners with good cloaths The vulgar manner, and the warehouse phrase Sticks to their tongue in whatsoe'er it says And when they don the Sunday suit of lace, They doff the shopman's epileptic face The greasy nightcap's thrown aside, and now They buckle up the supercilious brow, Heap on their leaden pate; Sir Cloudesley's wig With all the little arts of looking big Grow rude to those to whom six days they bow'd If they canH be polite they will be proud Will treat all curates with contemptuous air, Although the livery of Christ they wear Servant to Christ and what is that to me t I keep a servant too, as well as He." And tho' they are but sweepers of the pews, The scullious of the church, they dare abuse And rudely treat their betters, urg'd by pride, As grooms, tho' horses' servants, mount and ride. Dine at a parish feast, and there review The coarsa behaviour of the glutton crew. Each petty slave in office greedy carves I The unctuous morsels, while the Citrate starves. !|: The Clerk himself is saucy now and then, But who would quarrel with a mere Amen ? These, and a thousand grating ills beside I To the poor curate's thorny life betide. Ye lionets curates, wheresoe'er you arc, Whate'er your lot is, learn that lot to bear Though royal favour never on you shone, Nor cast off M gave a B p's throne Though fortune will not make you for her heir, Nor think you fools enough to need her care, Repine not at the humble place you hold, Happiness is not to bo bought with gold Sigh not for mitres, they're not worth your care, They're lined with thorns, although they look so fair, Virtue can live without them, nor would cliuse To gain a mitre her content to loose. Few are the wants of life-bed, raiment, lood, And its chief luxury is doing good. Curates in this may with Archbishops vje, With Princes may contend in charity May skiv with Monarchs ill the deeds of Grace, Andchallengcthomtcruntlrimmortalracc. --0-- Ddvdd Gwenor, yn •Llandudno, bu farw Eva Freeman, geneth fach ddwyfiwydd a phedwar mis oed, mown canlyniad i roi ei dillad ar dan wrtli cliware a'r matches pan oedd ei mam yn lloflt y ty. 4>- Y gvvr priod oedrannus a dderbyniai beusiwn wyt.lin.osol tan y Ddeddf Newydd-wodi oi fwrw i gar- char' yng Nghaergybi i aros oi In-awf tan y .Y ddegoed. Eifi

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