He had stretched forth his hand to receive the red gold, And he thought himself mocked by Gwenwynwyn the Bold; And in scorn of the gift, and in rage at the giver, He jerked it immediately into the river.
Gwenwynwyn, aghast, not a syllable spake; The philosopher's stone made a duck and a drake; Two systems of circles a moment were seen, And the stream smoothed them off, as they never had been.
Gwenwynwyn regained, and uplifted his voice, "Oh friar, grey friar, full rash was thy choice; The stone, the good stone, which away thou hast thrown, Was the stone of all stones, the philosopher's stone."
The friar looked pale, when his error he knew; The friar looked red, and the friar looked blue; And heels over head, from the point of a rock, He plunged, without stopping to pull off his frock.
He dived very deep, but he dived all in vain, The prize he had slighted he found not again; Many times did the friar his diving renew, And deeper and deeper the river still grew.
Gwenwynwyn gazed long, of his senses in doubt, To see the grey friar a diver so stout; Then sadly and slowly his castle he sought, And left the friar diving, like dabchick distraught.
Gwenwynwyn fell sick with alarm and despite, Died, and went to the devil, the very same night; The magnanimous heroes he held in his pay Sacked his castle, and marched with the plunder away.
No knell on the silence of midnight was rolled For the flight of the soul of Gwenwynwyn the Bold. The brethren, unfeed, let the mighty ghost pass, Without praying a prayer, or intoning a mass.