There goes Mr Prichard Morris
down to the shed to take his kine
out on the hills, to Garn Ddu
the black rock. He says the grass
up there has iron in it and gives
his milk that something extra.
I don’t doubt he believes it,
a fine man is he, dressed in woollen
tartan trues, he lives the outdoor life
and seeks the best pastures for his beloved
cows, only the best meadows for them
he says, and he knows every meadow
on the hills, and where the nearest
spring and stream is at any time of day.
He drinks beer, but only one pint
mind you, and then only Wednesdays
and Saturdays. He’s out most of the day
and milks them around tea time
before he puts them into the barn
then sells the milk, he milks again
at 6 early morning before they go out
with Cwm his collie.
Some say he drinks more than a pint
on market days at Brecon fair, but
I say they are gossiping.
Mr Prichard Morris is a chapel man
and does nothing in excess, only
he does like singing. I heard him
on the moor sing Calon lan
and he has the most melodious
baritone voice.
I go to visit his shed for milk
at times and it smells of the meadows
and so does he. He keeps some milk
back for making cheese and the best
cream for the cottage hospital.
The allotment keepers come and clear
the manure and in exchange leave
parcels of vegetables for him.
Yes, he is quite a man is Mr Prichard Morris,
now should his housekeeper move on
or be taken ill, or even die, then maybe
I could catch his eye to fill in as it were.
