On Cambria's green vallies, or oak-cover'd hills,
By clear running fountains or murmuring rills,
That Mab, and her fairies, have found a retreat,
Appears on the grass by the prints of their feet:
When winds to the Echo a roundelay sing,
At eve round the glow-worm they dance in a ring.
One Morgan Ap-Price had the luck to be led
In search of a kid, where their tables were spread;
In malice and sport, they would have him partake
Of their fairy-land wine, and fairy-land cake;
But told him, unless he were loyal and true,
His tasting their drink he'd have reason to rue.
Poor Morgan was modest, nor ventur'd to sip,
Tho' tempting the cup, as it rose to his lip;
For conscience accus'd him of breaking the oath
He swore, when to Winny he plighted his troth!
They laugh'd in his face, and condemn'd him to wear
A thorn in his breast, till his conscience were clear.