Classics which at home are drowsily read have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the transom of a merchant brig.
IT tossed and tossed, A little brig I knew, O’ertook by blast, It spun and spun, And groped delirious, for morn. It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight. Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean’s heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.
Harddwas teg a'm anrhegai, Hylaw ?r mawr hael yw'r Mai. Anfones ym iawn fwnai, Glas defyll glân mwyngyll Mai. Ffloringod brig ni'm digiai, Ffl?r-dy-lis gyfoeth mis Mai.
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