As down the wind driveth and thrusts through the sea The sail-burg that striveth to turn and go free, But the lads at the tiller they hold her in hand, And the wind our well-willer drives fierce to the land.

Now upon the coming of Chriſt, very much, tho' not all, of this idolatrous Trumpery and Superſtition was driven out of the World: […]

An indulgent playmate, Grannie would lay aside the long scratchy-looking letter she was writing (heavily crossed ‘to save notepaper’) and enter into the delightful pastime of ‘a chicken from Mr Whiteley's’.

My then teenage son would come home from gyms around Newport with tales of 'roiders – both rugby players and boys getting ripped to look good.