POETRY.
JENNY JONES.
(After The Welsh.)
ONE morn from Llangollen's dim violet valley
Light-hearted I clambered to Geer Dins Bran. O'er Cynwyd and Corwen I saw the sun sally, Ruabon's far ridges faint flushed with the dawn. As I looked Berwyn's waters to silver were smitten, And Dee danced in diamonds to left and to right ; But when one lone cottage my lover's eyes lit on, Sure ev'rything else faded out of my sight.
From the castle downhill, like a deer, I went racing ; With heart pit-a-patting I leapt the ford stones ; My feet through the sir, like a pair of swifts chasing, Flew straight to the doOrstep of sweet Jenny Jones. She sat by her father and I by her brother, Her sisters, like roses, ranged round me for choice; But of all and of any I only saw Jenny, ' And listened alone to each tone of her voice.
In the church of Llangollen, when joy bells were chiming, , If once my wits wandered right well I know why.
'Twas Jenny's "I take thee" to heav'n sent them Until her soft touch drew me down from the sky. I love a good neighbour, I love rest and labour, Good music and preaching, my pipe and my purse; But, beyond all and any, I love my own Jenny For rioher, for poorer, or better, for worse !
ALFRED PEECEVAI. GRAVES.
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