But there would be no end to my ſtory were I to tell you of all his oppreſſions. I was obliged to leave my farm; and my daughter, whom you ſaw this evening, having married an induſtrious young man, I came to live with them. When—would you believe it? this ſame man threw my ſon into jail, on account of his killing a hare, which all the country folks do when they can catch them in their grounds. We were again in great diſtreſs, and my daughter and I built the hut you ſaw in the waſte, that the poor babes might have a ſhelter. I maintain them by playing on the harp,—the maſter of this inn allows me to play to the gentry who travel this way; so that I pick up a few pence, just enough to keep life and ſoul together, and to enable me to ſend a little bread to my poor ſon John Thomas.
He then began one of the moſt diſmal of his Welſh ditties, and, in the midſt of it cried out—he is an upſtart, a mere muſhroom!—His grandfather was cow-boy to mine!—So I told him once, and he never forgot it.
