^S3 /S69 'l^i Ua. ^ " THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ON THE MM HOURS' MOVEIEM. There was a time in Fnglish history when it was illegal to labour for more than a limited number of hours, and yet there could not have been the same pressing necessity for shortening the hours of toil as r.t present— the powers of production being immeasurably inferior to those we now possess. We know that this limitation was brought about indirectly ; we know that fires were ordered to be extin- guished for a different object than that of shortening the hours of labour; but, that it did shorten them, rone will deny. But why should we refer to the past in order to settle a question of the present ? The question proposed is not whether the mechanic, tne artizan, the labourer of the pre- sent, is better or worse off than the mechanic, artizan, or labourer who preceded him, as some are inclined to put it ; the question is simply : " Can the hours of toil be reduced with safety to the general interests of society?" Slackness in many trades is continuous— that is, let the trade be never so brisk, nere is still insufficient employment for the whole who are looking to it as a means of obtaining a livelihood. In other trades, slackness is periodical ; both men and masters knowing perfectly well that at stated periods of the year stoppages must of necessity take place. Unskilled labour is always, more or less, a dru* in the*" market. While each of the aljove statements is indisputably true, and apparent to the most common observer ; is it not equally true and equally apparent, that each of the branches of industry that can possibly come under the above classifica- tion, many men are continually called upon to work more hours than it was ever ordained that man should work ? It matters little whether this accrues from the jealousy of the man, or from the preferences and desires of the master— the result, in either case, is the same— namely, increased pauperism and increased crime, and, of necessity, increased police survcilliuice and increased taxation, ai one time tiie virtuous ineliguatiou of tlie public is expeudeu against prostitution ; at anolLer, society is in arms against the midnight burglar ; at another, the Times is startled oui ot its propriety by au alanniug increase of brutal anu savage robberies in our public streets ; or, as of late, iho whole nation is astounded at the increased number of bloody and fatal conflicts between the game-watcher and the game- stealer. All such are undoubtedly the result of unwilling idleness, which readers every well-conceived remedy of both statesman and philanthropist of little or no value; i-ugland, with all her weartii, less virtuous and less happy than many a less-iavoured nation ; and Christianity as powerless as the veriest paganism to intercept the progress ot crime. Without, however, taking into consideration the fatal consequences to society in general ; forgetting, tor the pre- sent, ihe extortionate demand which crime ever makes upon those who abhor crime, is it just between man and man that one t^hould be over-employed while another is starving lor the want of something to do '( Is it rational that one man should work from live or six in the morning till near mid- night while another is forced to walk the streets or stay at home in idleness ? If such things arise from greediness, is greediness to be encouraged ; it jealousy, should not jea-- lousy be discountenanced ; if from preference or desire, cau such preference or such desire be tolerated in a country which professes to deal justly by all. ■ ■ As we have already intimated, the evils arising from this unfair division of labour do not attack one class of the com- munity alone ; but all classes ; every human being is in danger if crime stalks dominant through the land. Every man possessed of property contributes directly or indirectly to support those who dei)end upon chaiity ; and not a homt is safe from pollution -vvliile prostitution remains at a premiun. and honest industry at a discouut. These facts may not b( api arent to the thoughtless or to the extremely seltish, but they are both plain and obvious to those who search aftei and desire to grasp the truth. \ Crime is but a moral disease yet far more contagious than iniy physical one ol which wt have the least conception. As the inmates of the mansioi are in jeopardy wiicn cholera or fever infects the poorei dwellings in its vicinity, so are they unsafe iu a state o society that engenders and strengtiiens crime. Forced idle- ness is the most prolific parent of criminals. Let the records of crime be searched — let the iudpres of the lanrl he interro- jrated — and it will soon be discovered that there is no forcing house for crime like the home of idleness. Evil thoutrhts scarce ever enter into the mind when healthily employed, hut how easily they take and maintain possession if the mind be void and disenjiajrod. The man who is continually forced to say- "How can T obtain bread for my childi(>n ?'' is iu a fair way of becominpr a candidate for penal servitude. The love for his children is no check, no safeguard, but to the passionate and fond, if devoid of the strenjrth resultinjr from continuous moral teaching, an additional and irresistible stimulus. But, it maybe areued, England is but one of the great families of nations. ComiJCtition not only reigns within liut without, and her continued greatness depends upon her ability to outstrip the world in her productive efforts. Granted — but her powers for production are not increased Iby over-taxing one portion of the population, while anotner portion un- willingly remains idle. The labour of forty men employed twelve hours per day is not more productive than that of forty-four men when employed only ten, and in this consists th(» force and stamina of our argument. The increase of artificial power may be greater in some trades than others, but this matters not, for in those trades where science has created no revolution, has exerted no di- rect influence, the members thereof (having of necessity become more numerous), are more than capable of supplying any demand that can possibly be made upon them. If you npon the other hand, turn to those trades where machinery has proved most successful all doubt about the gigantic force at ourdisi)Osal at once ceases. In 1S16 it was computed from data supplied by the master •-cotton spinners of this country that the machinery employed in the cotton trade alone exceeded the manual labour of eight 1/ millions, and adding thereto that of the wool, silk, and flax manufacture, it exceeded the manual lubour of 200.000.000, of population. This fact was riiiirely lost sight of by Mr, Tolquhoun, in his work " On the re.sources of the British Empire" who exclaimed when he saw it clearly proved by the figures and facts before him : "A mvstery to me when I wrote my late work is now explained," and that mystery eimply consisted in his ridiculously underrating the produc- tive powers of machinery. When we take into consideration that this scientific power not only in these trades, but in all ■^^rades, has continually beeu increasing from 1816 up to the y- A 1- present hour, and that it must, in tlT^ common nature of things, continue to increase ami multiply t(j an e^ctent that no man can possibly foresee, it must be seen that there' is no necessity for men to be overtasked. In T856 ^we believe) the propriefors of the Times newspaper ofFtjred a large premium for a machine capihle of printing ten thousand an hour, there is now an Amei-ican machine (Howji's), of which there are four or five in London, capable of producing 15,000 in the sara'! amount of time. St. Paul's Cathedral was begun in Ir to supply ten thousand military suits per week by a single manufacturer, by aid of the sewing machine, a machine, be it remembered, which threatens to rivider valueless not the labour of the tailor alone, but that of the ne^dle-woraan, the cord-wainer, the sail-maker, and a variety of similar o^cunations is an additional proof of the continued progress of scientific power. If we were capable of producing in 1841, €248,000.000, of manufactured article^ v- e b-dieve it to be possible, if need be. to produce, with sub'-equent improvements fully double that amount, and on the^e facts alone, we perceive, full justifications for the derannd at present being made to reduce the hours of labour. But, it will b» arguod. in ord-r to obtain cheap labour, it is necessary that the labour market should be inimdtited, and by granting the demand of those who Reel< this diminu- tion, we contribute towards a contrary re*;ult. Cheapness'^ may or m;iy not be a benefit— a benefit if legitimate, not otherwise. To make labour a drug in order to produce cheapness raav be an advantage to a few. but cannot be to the many. It may benefit those with fixed incomes — such as ministers, judges, military and naval officers, annuitants, fundholdors, mortgagees, and capitalists, but it is at the expeu'^e of the millions whose labour i« thus unfairly reduced in value. Cheapness should never be sought after at the expense of justice — for this not only means injustice hut Ihvolation. We have an account before us of a farm- labourer toilin» in Ireland for one.halfpenny per day, and one year afterwards 11 ;bel lion broke out, but not before famine had done its deadly work with a tremendous per centagc of her population. If cheapness can be produced without injustice, . none have reason to complain. But the unfairness of prO' < ducing cheapness at the expense of any one section of society, ■ is easily made manifest. Supposing the taxing of land was rendered so disproportionate that land was not worth holding ; this might render the machinery of government cheap to the. non -landowners, but would the landowner consider such cheapness equitable and just ? No. he would at once exclaim against the palpable iniustice of the whole proceeding ? or again that government issued an unlimited supply of notes till indeed their value became considerably reduced, would there not be an outcry against such a process by those who held an abundance of this species of wealth — would they calmly see it depreciated in value, even though it be shown that it would confer great benefit upon another portion of the community whether large or small ? It is all very well to say that the workman who is thus driven up into a comer is a free agent and need not take the insignificant amount offered for his labour unless he choose, but the only alterna- tive is that of starving and hence the paltry amount is too often accepted. It is calculated that one man can now produce as much as fifty could forraerlv (of course this applies to the wholeX then what necessity of working so manv, nay more, hours than our fathers. Let the man with a fixed income be con- tent with a fair share of the advantages flowing from im- proved machinery and the development of chemical aids, de- pend upon it his position will be far more substantial, and the cry of poverty shall cease throughout the land. The poor man gains no advantage from machinery if you reduce the price of his labour by creating an unnatural dearth of employment, and render him an idler six months out of the twelve. Surely as Christians yon cannot love pauperism— you do not desire that for your benefit the struggle for labour should be so fierce as to make one man pray for tbe death of another, or even his disablement ; nor do you like to see the idler in the market place brooding over the easiest manner to obtain a meal. Scenes like the following are not unfamiliar even in the present day : The man of substance is soundly sleeping in his well-built country mansion : suddenly he is aroused by a tremendous crash : before he has time to divine the caiise, a form secm-ely hidden by a mask, stands over him, demanding all the porfcable wealth the house contains or in- Btant death. It is notorious that such scenes are more com- mon when labour is scarce. Now, it docs not follow that if you take one hour from those devoted to toil that the amount produced must neces- sarily be diminished. On the contrary, many arguments might be adduced to shew that the result would have an opposite tendency. If you were prepared to give to the labourer a fair share of the wealth arising' from the introduc- tion of improved mechanical appliances, he would bs encouraged to use the hour given to him in perfecting the various means employed to supersede manual labour. That ^»- improvements are thou£;ht of and never allowed to transpire, that new inventions have been shelved and rendered value- less through the workman's dislike is a well-known fact, and so it will ever continue if such discoveries and such appli- ances are unfairly used to overstock the labour market, and force thousands into unwilling idleness. Our workshops teem with Watts and Arkwrights ; but the premium offered for their ingenuity is longer hours and diminished wages, or, upon the other hand neither work nor pay. Let it be fairly known that capital will not take an unfair advantage of the class from which these great inventors sprang, and we dare predict that every trade will be invested with greater powers of production than has yet been dreamed of, for we have, aa- yet, merely passed through the gate of the field of inventionrSc^ As an argument against short hours, it was lately stated ^ that a house could now be purchased for one fourth the amount it cost only a few years ago. Surely this must be an ai-gument in favour of reduced hours of labour. We are not aware that money so invested brings a less amount of interest in the shape of rental than in those times when houses were so exhorbitantly charged for ; indeed a cottaee, or a villa, or a mansion, though costing only one fourth the amount (if such statement be true)|brings in a larger rent.-xl than at any other period of our history; Does not this fully show, as we have already intimated, that capital obtains more than its fair share of the advantages arising from the '^ application of improved scientific appliances. We have never asserted that cheapness bouefits our employers, and to place the argrument on such a footing, is to argue from false premises. We have and do assert that it benefits those with fixed incomes. If the price of every article either of con- sumption, wear, or luxury be reduced one h.alf, the value of the pound is doubled. If the process of cheapening produc- tion renders employment less plentiful or cheapens manual labour, of courfse the labourer does not reap a corresponding advantage That the hours of toil must increase and the value of manual labour decline, if man is ruthlossly pitted a(:;ainst machinery, is obvious. Again, who pays the additional rental ? The labourer. Who reaps the multiplied interest? The capitalist. Surely the toiler is not over exacting who seeks the dimi- nution of one hour from those devoted to labour, nor can he be charpjed with selfishness when his purpose is to see his fellow man removed from the temptation of crime and the gxiidance of despair. He seeks this with the belief that it will not injure his employer whe has far more reason to dread the evil effects of unscrupulous competition, whose insidious J^ ])ower is gradually but surely *underniining the honest and i. upright tradesman. Would it not be far better that the machinery of the mill owner and the capitalist should be constantly moderately worked than that it should, as at present, be allowed to remain idle for a great portion of the year. If it be an advantajre Cwhich few can doubt) that good feeling f^hould exist between master and man, would not the concession to which we have alluded, such an act of justice, indeed, insure such a result ? It would shew that the master studied the happiness and well being of those whose strength and skill combined with his own exertions, enabled '^ bim to grow rich, and that Christianity had a power to upraise and protect all who came under the shelter of its wings. As yet we have only hinted at the evils arising from over toil. Excessive exertions can only be sustained by the use of stimulants and hence follow drunkeness and moral degrada- tion. " To work like a horse and spend youi' earnings like an' ass" has more meaning than most people comprehend. It is undeniable that many men work, indeed far harder than horses were ever known to work, making due allowance for the difference between their physical structure. Great and continued exertions lead to premature old ago and the Icfss of moral stamina, for the money so gained is recklessly squan- dered, and the distiller and the brewer grow fat, and men thus heedlessly kept out of employ are a tax upon the pooB and indeed upon all classes of the community. The labours of the inventor are not the property of one class, but of the whole nation ; if it be that they are simply. 10 to render houses cheap to the capitalist, and building land more valuable to the landowner, and, indeed, to contribute *^C!I in every way towards their wellfare, we say that it is a folly to make such an assertion for it is a false and treacherous propagration of that which is untrue.--—^ But overtoil means even more than this : It means dis- reputable homes, flow can a man have that regard and that control over his household which it is desirable that he should possess, if every hour of the daylip^ht be spent in the work- shop ? His childi-en grow up without his supervision : he has neifher the desire nor the time to instruct them ; and hence those deplorable results which we too often witness. Nor does it even end here : healthy moderate toil strenerth- ens and improves men phrsically ; but over exertion strains, weakens, and renders physical degeneracy an absolute certainty. And again, if looked at from a religious point of view. How is it that your churches are empty ? Or that the nudience consists chiefly of the middle and upper classes? Chiefly, we believe, because one half the population are prostrate on the sabbath from the week's ovei'-toil, and the other half, by that same over-toil, deprived of the means of appearing respectably clothed, and hence prefer to confine themselves to their own homes. Instead of building more churches, you may dispense with many of those already built, if the hours of over- toil are to continue to increase. , and the unemployed continue to multiply. Equalize labour fairly between those who arc ready and willing to work, and your pastors will no longer be necessitated to lament the scantiness of their flock. ■r*" Or if wo look at the question rrom an intellectual point of view. Do we not perceive that mental improvement is almost rendered an impossibillity, for those who have idleness thrust upon them have neither the desire nor the motive for so improving themselves, while those who are over- worked are unfitted for the display of the mental activity required for intellectual improvement. Hence, wo see, that from every point of view over-toil and its concomitant, txnwilling slothfulness, are dangerous and disastrous to all classes of the commonwealth. In spite of facts like those, shall it be allowed to continne? Shall it still be allowed to remain as a prolific source of im- morality, drunkenness, destitution, ignorance, and physical degeneracy ? Surely there cannot be any foar that the working claesea 11 will acquire too ranch power if so simple a boon be granted. Capitalists havR still thoir maeliinery — still a monopoly of parliamentary power — still the weight and influence of their wealth and possessions. There is no o'her country on the face of the globe where men toil so long and so assidionsly as they do in England, and yet few countries nossoss th;^; sanae natural advantages and none the same artifieial powers of prodviction. Eastern nations are proverbially idle nations — the nations of the continent toil but moderately^ and jHe«Aw»o yet to learn that in any nation included in the appellation Eastern, or of the continent, that labour has more than its fair share of power, or that capital is in any way rendered subservious or its in- terests unduly encroached upon. The spirit of Eritish enter- prize ; the known industry and perseverance of all classes of the British n .pulation, and the patient snbmissiveness of her toiling joor, are sufficient guarantees that no harm can acnruo from so trifling a limitation of the hours of toil. We do not care whether th-s resuit be enforced by an act of pai-liaraent. or whetber it be the result of mutual agreement between the two classes mostly concerned. Of the two, we prefer tbe latter. If it be by the former, we would humbly submit that all persons interested and desirous of breaking throu2;h*Ruch legal enactment should not have the power of levying fines or dealing out punish- ment to those who choose to infringe and defy the law. If such law be made, the magistrate should be held responsible for tlie due observance of such law ; for wo do not hesitate to say that if every laJ»; wai treated with the same contempt as that referring to th^ limitation of the hours of labour in our larg-e factories iri:the north of England, that the authority of law would soon be at an end. and justice would be a thing unknown. That it is beneficial, so far as the law is sustained and respected we have a decisive proof in the -'interest displayed bv the manufacturing operative when the ten hours bill for which they battled so strenuously, is in any way endangered. But, as we have said, we should prefer that such a limitation resulted from a cordial understanding between master and man, believing it must eventually im- prove the condition of both. We have not heard that those shopkeepers who have closed their shops an hour eai-lier have been in any way injured by thus allowing their shopmen an additional hour for recreation. The public do not cease to purchase simply because shops aro closed an hour earlier, but, on the other hand, the expenses 12 of firiiio: and p;aa for the extra hour is a clear profit to the master. The wholesale dealers of the City have almost Unanimously closed their warehouses on the Saturday after- noon, and we have yet to learn that bankruptcy is prevalent among them. Of one thin?, we are certain ; that greater pood feeling must necessarily exist between the employer and the employed. If the other system be preferable, namely that of getting labour as cheaply as possible by over-toil and under-toil, or rather, no toil ; in heaven's name extend it to its farthest bounds. Increase the number of hours devoted to toil — decrease the hours of rest, and labour according to your own showinfr, will be cheaper and more abundant still. Houses may be purchased at a mere trifle beyond the cost of the raw -material and the master's profit. "We see very little difference between the starving of fifty and the starving of a thousand, and if it be advantageous say to manufacture one thousand criminals, it must be more advantageous to manufacture a million, you have only to twist the nut a few threads lower. As you now grow rich, so you may grow richer — as you make criminals, so you may multiply them. Has it come to this, that humanity is not worth a thought ? Are the laws of nature to be continually over-ridden at the beck of a few scheming, cold-hearted, political economists, for it is the men belonging to this school, who have preached, and preached so successfully, this unmanly and cowardly creed, which is echoed and re-echoed by t1>e ignorantly selfish till subjects like the present are de- cided without discussion, put out of court without a hearing — as being false and fallacious, and dangerous to the very existence of society. It is all very well to raise a cry of non-interference between master and man. that the interest of capitalists must on no account be disturbed — but at least we have a right to appeal >, against the misery and wretchedness produced by the present -.p unequal division of labour. «(«' If you doubt the fact that the labour market be really over-^S stocked, place an advertisement in the Times newspaper asking for any number of men belonging to any particular calling, and the fact will be made apparent. Ask the multitudinous applicants how many children they have dependant upon their exertions, and by this means you may obtain some idea of the amount of human misery which is hidden by the brick exteriors of our humble dwellings. We have thus temperately stated our demands — we have btought the most fitting arguments at our disposal to bear 13 upon the question, and we believe we bave shewn that the rtsult ot obtaining the Concession we srek would be conducive 10 theintfrebls ot every portion ot sotieiy. We Lave shewn that tliere is no longer a necessity for toiling so many hours — that nine houis per day would be amply sufficient to meet the demand for manual labour — that such diminution would lessen the number of our criminals by giving healthy employment to the unemployed^detrease tlie number ot paupers — physi- cally improve our race, and injure none. We believe we h^ ve proved ail we are required to prove. We kiiOW we have not stated all the arguments that might have been adduced, nor have we stated the whole of the advantages which would arise Irom the adoption of this meihod ot equalizing labour, and the reason is because we prefer being britt and compact rather than lengthy and discursive. VVe;,ii*Kd noiK^Dly-summariseTTthe factg we h.^v^ adduced and the purpose to which we have applied them, ^^'e^i■f^ve proved that a superflt;ity of manual labour and unwilling idle- ness exist in almost every trade and calling, and that these ai'ise from the introduction of gre^ labour saving processes ; that although many were forking for longer ptrioUs than they^ ought to worlt^ other were starving )or the want of employ- _ ment ; that ovfe-x-toil produced bodily prostration and physical degeneration, destroyed the comforts and hindered the sur- veillance of l^pme, while idleness produces crime and pauper- ism and leads to the expenditure ot larger sums oa ^al8*n4 unions ; that where a i;^ duction of the hours of toil tad taken place, no injurious etiect had been expeiiei.ceu; thatche^ness produced by fraudulentlx^undervaluing the .juice of IfcbCUf, was productive ot ill feeling between the diflereni classe* of the population and would ultimately reduce to serfdom thf whole of those whose wealth entirely consisted of labo^l^'flnd, lastly, that the capitalisr, or rather those with fixed incomes, had already reaped more than their fair share of the benefits arising trom the employment of machinery. In conclusion, we ask those who have been led away by the false and insidious doctrines of the reigning school ot political ectnomists to consider the injustice of refusing to grant so trifling an act of jnstice as that of making the maximum hours of labour to consist of nine. In taking into considera- tion the laws which should govern both commercial and productive operations, this class ot men has ignored humanity, whereas, humanity should have been the starting point. The consequence has been that the sacrifice of human life and human happiness has been held of little or no consequence 14 Xatiire lias been twisted and ill-used to meet an imaginary law, whereas, common sonse pronounced that law to be tallaeious which existed only on the misery of thousands. A word to our employers and we have done. The Nine Hours Movement has been entered into with no spirit of opposition. W e believe it will in no w«y compromise your interests as a class. You as well as ouri-clves have been injured by the reckless abandonment of the common principles o justice. We wish only for a calm and considerate attention ot the tacts upon which we base our request, believing they are sufficient to disarm all predjudices respecting the legili- macy of our course of procedure, our only aim heing a fair and just distribution ot toil among all who labourT and the ^ moral social, and intellectual improvement of the weak and injured portion of the community. ^ » 2^ A KIMBUETOiX, STORY OF VILLAGE LIFE. BY JOHN BEDFORD LENO, Author of "Last Idleb," "'Drury Lank Lyrics," etc. ^ ^ vfe, SECOND AND ENLARGED EDITION. LONDON : REEVES AND TURNER, 19 6, STRAND. 1889. ?K US'?. 960836 The wizard, King Labour, walked over the land, And the spade for a sceptre he bore ; And each step he took left an Eden behind, While the desert untamed frowned before. He levelled huge mountains, and blasted the rock, Where for ages vast treasures lay hid, And shewed Heaven the coffer where Earth stored her wealth. And laughed loud as he shattered the lid. XmBUETOlf, A STORY OF VILLAGE LIFE, How quietly slnmbers Kimburton, My doarly-boloved native place ; How English is every feature — This nest of a sea-girdled race : How calmly the sun shines upon it, And lights up its white cottage walls,. And makes each bright feature look brighter, Wherever its light of love falls. The bird on its steeple looks golden. The rod that upbears it aflame, Its tower seems fashioned of marble, its woodlands are crowded with game ; Its river seems running with silver, Through moorland, and meadow and lea, To add to the wide waste of waters, And bury itself in the sea. How barren its bit of a common — How fertile its pasturage round — How sleepy the flock on the hillside — How quiet the ass in the pound ! How sweetly the skylark is singing — How the spirit within me is stirred ! What power, what magic, what music! To spring from the throat of a bird ! What a miniature picture of mortals. Their passions, their wrongs, and their woes, To those who are prone to be thoughtful, This bit of the world might disclose ; Ambition, contentment, endearment. The selfish, the vain and the good— < Tiie whole might be grappled to-morrow Were the little spot understood. What king thought, what slave thought, what- no thought, What aimlessness wedded to life — What smouldering passions half-buried— What seed for perpetual strife : All — all may be found in Kimburton, Land-locked on the banks of a stream ; It only needs mind moved to action To see them all pass like a dream. What scenes for the pencil and canvas. What pictures for poets to paint ; What glory for high heaven to harvest— , What work for a saviour or saint; What tragedy, comedy, drama, To stir up the passions of men— What volumes of lore lie awaiting The life-touch of thought and of pen. What wealth would I give to be able To picture the place of my birth — ' The deep hidden springs now expanding To move men to sorrow and mirth 1 Nor paint like a poor, worldly artist, Whose hand has been strengthened and taught ; But paint with the whole soul within me Its innermost pulses of thought ! How dearly I love this old village, Set round with its border of trees — With the pure white smoke of each homestead- Spread out like a fan in the breeze : With its choristers piping all round it. From hedgerow, and woodland and bush. The redbreast, the linnet, and blackbird, The chaffinch, the wren, and the thrush ! What dreams I have dreamt of its future ! How fondly I gaze on it now I .i It seems to grow brighter and fairer As the snow lightly falls on my brow. Its life stories grow more familiar, '. Their teachings more earnest and pure. And, like the good ship that's got soundings, I leel I am dead on truth's shore. But how shall I picture its quiet — Its absence of bustle and noise, The bloom on the cheek of its maidens, The spirit and strength of its boys ; r The innermost life of its homesteads. The cares of its women and men, , 7 The sunlight that falls on its mountains To deepen and die in the glen 1 10 ETMBCTRTON. I have only the vision of mortals, The knowledge men gloan hy the way, And the love that I bear this Kimburton To prompt mo in all I can say ; But still, if I paint like a poet The old-fashioned scene of my birth, Each miud that is gifted with fancy, Can till in the picture of earth. — o — THE OVERFLOW. Kimbnrton's an out-o'-the-way spot, That strangers be puzzled to find ; It tries to keep up with the nation. But always seems dropping behind ; Its people be quaint and old-fashioned, And move at a very slow pacej ijut, if ever the world should start backward, There'd be odds on its winning the race. Itwas never a spot famed for learning. It was little the folks knew down there, They would talk of the crops and the weather, And then of the old " statty " fair. One'd say as the cornfields looked '•yaller," Another, he knew " there'd bo rain," And after a shy at the '"taters" They'd prophecy over again. Then learning was not in the keeping Of the down-trodden children of toil. It was hidden away in high places. And labelled for lords of the soil; It was said to mean bloodshed and danger. And, if ever it spread through the land. That all the poor folks of the nation Would rise up and want to command. It was kept in a few earthen pipkins. That filling, at length overflowed, It ran into streets, courts and alleys. And sallied along the highroad; It dribbled through lanes lined with hedge- rows, Down bridal-paths shaded by trees It followed the track of the moorland, And 60 won its way by degrees. It crept up the ruts and the ditches. And filtered through slush and through slough, It whispered to him who was threshing And fihoutcd to him at the i)lough ; It sailed o'er the seas, it flashed under, No ocean so large but it spanned — It poised on the rocks of the coastline. And pierced through the heart of the land. But how came it down at Kimburton, The last place that God ever made, Unpierced by the augur of commerce, And free from the jargon of trade ? It was led by a poor despised ranter. Who preached from a rush-bottomed chair, Then canvassed a bit of a chapel, And finally settled down there. It was he who first set it a-going. And his be the honour alone ; He said it was better than riches, And spoke of the good it had done ; And then ourgreat church- folks grew jealous, And built up a school of their own, And this was the very first outgrowth That came from the seed he had sown. It is strange how we drank it and liked it. How wo thirsted and thirsted for more, How the priest who had shouted out *' danger ! " And " Keep it away from the poor !" Cried " Unlock the whole tide of learning. And let it career on its way !'' And now mark the change in Kimburton — We are better and wiser to-day. THE COMMON RECLAIMED. Oh, yes ; it be full forty years, I daresay, Since we grubbed up the common, Bill Sawyer and I ; It took us twelve months, and a year, and a day. To clear out the roots, and to let in the sky: It was Nature, not Culture, that ruled o'er the scene, And her wild children crowded the hill-side and plain, And they laughed in the sunshine, in yellow and green. Where the lindscape is covered with ripe golden grain. " You've been robbing this land for this many a year," Ciied Bill, as he drove bis pick into the earth ; Come out ! there's no room for the likes of you hero ! You've been robbing the poor since the day of your birth;" KIMHUKTOV. U And the yellow-plumod furze, ho tore up by the root, And the fronds of the red-fern he scattered around. As be shouted '-Make way for the flowers that Iniit — Ye are born of a race that encumber the ground. If you search by the ditches and unreclaimed waste. You will find the furze bushes stripped bare of their pride, The humbled remains of the dominant caste, To riches and splendour no longer allied ; There's a magic in labour— the common to-day, Where the furze-bush and heather tri- umphantly spread, I3 a nosegay of llowers and sweet-scented hay, And of golden ripe corn that will furnish us bread. Yea, we grubbed up the common, and let in the light. And the rich showers fall on the broken-up ground ; And the dews that distil in the darkness of night, In the lusty green leaves of the wheat-stems are found; Oh ! yes, sir ; them hard times be passed away now, To live among icebergs with Famine and Cold, And I sing with the lark as I rest on my plough, And laugh at the fears that beset me of old. THE POACHERS. Old Garper was bred up to poaching, And so was young Blunder, his mate, And night after night they departed To plunder some rich man's estate : They cared not for watcher nor keeper, Wlionever they chose to set sail. And mockingly bowed to the justice Whenever he sent them to jail. They were brimful of courage and daring. And fearless of goblin and sprite. Cared not for the murkiest weather. Nor yet for the stormiest night; They were good at a fight or a wrestle. Could bound o'er a gate at a spring, And riddle a martin or swallow, _ Though ever so ewift on the wing. Tlmy know where the wild rabbits sported, 'i'he run of the flcot-footed hare, Tbo haunts whore the many-hued pheasant Kor shelter and rest would repair; The deeps and the shallows of rivers. The spot where the finest fish lay. And, with instinct as keen as Grimalkin's, They waited and watched for their prey. One night in the dead of the winter. When the broad earth was covered with snow. And from drinking and gaming at " Fin- cher's " The funds of the poachers were low, OM Garper aside, said to Blunder, •• The clock is about striking ten, Anil I know it's an hour's good walking To take us to Crab-applo Glen." Each drew out a box from his pocket. And filled up his pipe for a smoke. When Blunder's slipped clean through his fingers, And fell on the flooring and broke ; "Bad luck!" cried the poacher, "confound it! I've smoked it for many a day ; I'd sooner have parted with sixpence Than broken that dear bit of clay ! *• Jlcv^, guv'nor, just give us another, I must have a smoke on the road : Tliere's naught like a pipe of tobacco To lighten the weight of your load !" And then, as ho beat out the topper, And filled up his cleaner dhudeen, lie swore that the pipe ho had broken Was the puniest clay ever seen. '■ By Jove ! it's a nipper, to-night, Sam," Said Blunder, who first lelt the cold; '• Ay, ay," said his mate, " it is awful To those who I e gettin' bit old, And awfuUer still to tlio hungry, As havn't got nowhere to go But under a 'oarn or a hayrick, To 'scape from the wind and tho snow." Thu* they talked as they jogged on together. Through Dilton and Bartleby Jloor, Then hold to the path where the river Is fast undermining its shore; And then branching off by Duniston, And crossing tho Idistro Fell, They soon hove in siglit of tho birchwood That spreads over Crab-applo Dell. T> KIMBURTON. Tho snow lii'litly foil on tbo branches, And clothed all the forest in white, It seemed like a spot where tlio fairies In revelry pass the long night ; The brambles were covered with silver, The moonbeams fell soft through the trees, And tho silence around was unbroken, Except by the stir of tho breeze. "Get ready!'" said Blunder to Garper, — And lock, stock, and barrel are one ; And soon in tho depths of tho woodlands, The sports of tho night are begun. Bang ! bang ! and a brace of bright pheasants Are bleeding to death on tho ground ; And tho stains of their blood are despoiling The purity reigning around. In a ditch running straight through the valley, Two keepers Ho down, side by side, And eager to rush at tho poacher — A lurcher, fast muzzled and tied ; "It's Garper and Blunder," cried Maitland, Bide still — they are coming this way ! Kow, now, then," ho cried, in a whisper, '• Prepare yourself, Bill, for tho fray." The keeners spring out of tho hollow, The poachers turn backward and run, Then Garper, hard-pressed and in danger. Turns on them and raises his gun; "Stand back!" cried tho poacher, "I warn yer ! Back ! back !' but, unheeding the cry. The keeper steps forward to seize him — Steps forward to reel and to dio ! Through the smoke, all regardless of danger, The faithful hound seizes the foe; His fangs are soon fixed in his tlirottlo, And Garper's blood reddens the snow ! Now lil under, in fear, is fast flying. Away, and away, through the wood ; He dashes o'er brushwood and hedgerow, And swims through tho Kibble's broad flood. • • • " The death boll is sullenly tolling. List ! list ! to its ominous sound ! Tho gallows-tree frowns from the prison — The crowd is fast gathering round. And now a procession advances. And now a man dangles in air, And a priest, who did nothing to save him, Dismisses his soul with a prayer. — — OUR FATHER. Our father was good sort of sarvant, I bo told by the farmers about; And at ploughing for straightness of furrow. Ho could boat all tho rest out and out; And at thatching a barn, or a hayrick, His equal could never be found; And they tells I, at right time for sowing, His judgment was woundedly sound. ■When thoy royal agricultural gemmen Were spouting away at '• The George," Our fatlior was up and among 'em, A-doing a bit of a gorge ; And they said 'nation fine things about 'un. And gived 'un a bit of a frame, In which was recorded his sarvice, And Timothy Jenkins his name. It told how he brought up seven children. And fed 'em, without parish pay. With a wage that, when fairly divided, Guve each on us twopence a day ; It was set off with very fine pictures, That made it look mighty genteel, And one was a picture of plenty. That mocked us at every meal. Our father was 'nationly proud on't, And long ere ho sickened and died. Ho dot 'rmined, when laid in his coffin. His idol should rest by his side. He'd a strange sort of notion about 'un, But its strangeness may well bo forgiven-^ That, whenever the last trump was sounded. That card would admit him to heaven. As I stood by his grave wet and weary, Wi' neighbours all crowding around, When our father was taken to churchyard, In coffin that parish had found, I gathered from many a whisper, And tear, as it silently ran, Tho brotherly love and affection Each felt for tho happy old man. Not a soul save the poor had come nigh us When stretched on his death bed ha lay; And none but tho poor saw his coffin Dropt silently into tho clay ! And none but tho poor crossed our thres- hold. To cheer us when bowed down by care, Or bring us a glimpse of tho sunshine To banish the gloom settled there. KIMBURTON 13 It be twenty years since he was buried, And I, a poor l.id, left alone, Took charge of his bit of a household, Accepted tl^o challenge and won ! Still, I think of the mighty injustice, Tliat father was too proud to see ; Eut a glimmer of light 'mid tho darkness Has promised iho poor shall bo free. I think of tho hard-hearted master, That loft him to die in his bed, With bix little children around him, All crying for comfort and bread. And I swear, whilo Fvo breath in my body, To light, as no man fought before, To strangle tho giant injustice. And lift up the weak and the poor. BET GRAHAM. i have heard a great deal about battles. And honours pluckt out of the strife ; But I know there be often more courage Displayed in the battle of life. More courage, more honour, — less murder, And barely a titho of the wrong, So I'll take for example a woman — Contrasting her deeds with the strong. Bet Graham lived down at Kimburton — A village devoted to peace. Just as much as its bit of a common Was devoted to asses and geese. She was dressed in a queer sort of manner, In a hood that was faded and old. With a thick pair of heavy nailed shoes on, And man's coat to keep out the cold. Bet's husband was laid up with sickness, xVnd had been for many a day — A-shaking, like Fear, with the ague, That took him while stacking some hay ; Ho was fretful, and peevish, and stupid, Or else he was moody and sad. And at other times, wild and excited. As though he'd go stark-staring mad. In the wide, open fields in the winter, Unmindful of frost, sleet, and snow, With the icicles clinging about her, With courage unfailing she'd go ! She was never behind hand when wanted, She'd trudge it through wet and through dry, And, armed with a sickle in autumn. Toil on till the stars lit the sky. Bet Graham was oftentimes called on, When doctors had teste.l their skill, And confessed that their patients were dying. In spite of mixed potion and pill : She'd a laro lot of faith in ground ivy, In dockroot, and burdock, and yew. In groundmoss, and goosograss, and hyssop, In ragwort, and garlick and rue. For whooping-cough, borax and honey, For corns and for bunions, a charm ; In measles, ho trusted to sufTrou, And spices to cheer and to warm ; But in all things, to words kiudly spoken. Good nursing, and sisterly care. To cheer up their spirits when drooping, And banish all thoughts of despair. When a neighbour was taken with fever, And friends shunned the suiJorer's bed, She would hover about like an angel. And watch till the spirit iiad fled ; Or else till the stricken and wounded, Had beaten the terrible foe, And then to her husband and children She'd wearily, cheerily go. She would say that the lifeless looked pretty, To comfort tho robbed oucs who wept ; That tho once little rosy-faced infant Lay just all the world as it slept; While she tallied to its sisters and brothers As though it would come back again. And join in the sports of their childhood, Devoid of affliction and pain. When a poacher was lugged off to prison For stealing a rabbit or hare, She would fly to his wife and his children, And seek their misfortune to share ; She would comfort tho weak and down- hearted, And bid them take courage once more ; And toll them the Saviour they worsliipped Was hungry, and naked, and poor ! They may talk about courage and daring. Of towns sacked and burned to the ground, Of kings who have fought and have van- quish'd, And victors with high honours crowned ; They may tell us of charmed flags and ban- ners That wave 'mid the wrack and the flame. But 'twill take all their fine bits of bunting To cover and wipe out their shame. 14 TTMBUFTCN. I know whe.j our deeds are lookod over, \'.u\ tho rightoous are picked frain the wrong, T"i at fall many a kingly chaplot Will fall from tho brow of the strong ; And I know that the lowly Bet Graham Will rank with the just and the right, For the hundreds of poor stricken neighbours fcshe lifted from darkness to light. AN OWER-TRUE TALE. On a pillar close up 'gin the pulpit, Some ton foot or so from the ground, In the church of Longseaton-cum-Pogis, A tablet was formerly found ; It told how one, Simon Linklakor, Who dwelt in the village of yore. Had left a j^ood part of his fortune, To comfort the hearts of the poor. It decreed to 'em coals for the winter, And blankets for those who'd grown old, And a tidy large sum for poor women, NMiose husbands were under the mould; And the gifts wore " for ever and ever," So much to the Lord did he lend — A sort of a spring in the desert, To flow un, "tiio world without end." The old parson baled it out proper, There wasn't no cause to complain, Folks sed as 'twas erpial all over. It fell like the sunshine and rain ; But tlie old chap he soon kiokel the bucket, And another stopped into his shoes, And the neighbours were always a sayin", They belonged to two dilToront crews. I was called to that very same village, A year-and-a-quarter ago. When the ice was spread over its river. It's lands wore a mantle of snow. And I thought I wouU visit the temple, Where father and mother would pray, When I found that the stone from tlie pillar By some one was wrenched clean away. " Hullo ! then," says I, " what's :he matter? There be summat not right, I bo sure ; It looks as how gome one's a-goin' To try for to chisel the poor." So spcring about through the village, I soon made the matter out clear. The stone had gone arter the blankets. The cheese, and the coals, and the beer. " If that's it," says I, " there be plunder. That gift had been touched by the frost. The wide-spreading wings of the hangol, Them bbinkets, bo all on 'em lost ; Thorn coals be all turned into ashes; The beer from the butt has run dry; Someone has bin robbin' the livin', An' he as be sleepin' jest by. " '^'oU, who do you think could ha' done it ? The poacher that collars the game ? The Blunders, the Kitty's, the Garper's, Who pass through the world without shame? It wasn't not none of them 'ere coves, It wBRn't them short of a meal. It wasn't the openly wicked Had bin in the church for to steal. " vrhe was it ? Well wait, and I'll toll ye, 'Twas the chap who be standing up there — The parson who preached that ere sarmint, The chap as be readin' that prayer. That ore be the thief, take my word for't. He started a-mending the church, He has broken and buried the tablet. And left all the poor in the lurch." — — THE BITER BIT. It was early last Michaelmas morning, That's twelvemonth agono, pratty near^ I got a hold boss stuffed with ginger, An' druv 'im down into the fair. In his young days ho might have been some- thin', But hard work had done 'im no good, An' for twenty long years I feel sartin Ho had never bin crowded wi' food. He was used to the whip, and didn't mind it. An' could stand a good dig wi' a spur, He was bred from a mare called Aurora, An' took very much arter her. Well, I trims up his mane and his fetlocks. And weighted his lights down wi' shot, An' as soon as we gets to the Acre, I guv'd him a bit of a trot. I suppose 'twas the ginger that moved him, For he started at once right away. As fierce as my bit of a kitten Wlienover she starts for to play ; Ho flung up big tufts from the meadow, He kicl^od up his lieids in the air. And danged if that old bit of horsotiesh Didn't take the shine out o' th' fair. KDEBUETON. 15 ^ •• How much ?" cries a chap in knoe-breochos, " Wi' warranty ijuiot and sound," '• With all faults, ' ses I, " come ! a bargain ! He's yours at the prico — twenty pouniM." He pulled out his purse in a miunit, An' '• How will yor 'avo it ?" soa he, When, not to seem over partiklar, I ses, "Any how'll suit mo." " Come on then," ses ho, in a jiffy, And straiizht to " The Billet " wo -went, For I was afceard that the ginger. In that ere old hoss would get spent. I know'd he'd be otT of his bargin, An' wanted to stop all delay, For horses that's fed upon ginger. Bo sure in tho end to give way. " I am't got enough," said ho smilin', A sittin' an' squarin' the deck, *• Touch tho bell and just call for a summat. An' leave nie to draw out a cheque ;" Well, in course, as you know it's the custom. For tho seller to allays stand Sam, I called for a hwlf-pint o' brandy, An' paid for it, too, like a lamb. " There, that's it," ses he, wi' a flourish, An' hands the cheque over to me, "For fear you might lose it, I've crossed it; There's uothin' like caution, yer see." Then, portenclin' to be in a hurry, I shook han"s an' bid him good day. An' lord, how I danced, an' I chuckled As soon as I got clean away. Ses I, '• That's a good price for ginger;" Though i'd never sold any before, I made up my mind ou tho morrow, I'd speckerlate in a bit more. But I'm darned if I wasn't bumfoozled. For the paper he writ while I drank, As soon as it dried in my pocket Turned white as a sheet an' as blank. Well that's how it was I turned honest, I found out them tricks didn't pay : An' that's why tho folks call me "Ginger," Right down to this ere blessed day. And that's how it is I'm so cautious, Whenever I'm selling a hoss, I want all the coin to be posted, And am't to bo had on the cross. GREASE THE FAT SOW. I'se a poor hignoramus an' knaws loetle or nuilin. Thanks tao squiro an' parson, ther church an' ther skulo ; No wunder, methinks, that sum calls I a rufT'un, An' tho folk up in Lunnun a pig an' a fule. Still, I rokcs things about wen I goes out a- cartin', An' turns up a thought as I follors my plow, An' I SOS ta mosel', wi' a luk that monos " sartin," Tka rich be detarmincd ta grease tha fat sow. I'm danged if I dwon't tak' to pothooks an* hangers An' rite ta tha peepers tha loetle I knaws; I'll tell bits o' truth 'bout oursels an' our gangers, An' games as be played by tha hawks on tha crows, They gies I ten shillins a week ta keep sis wi'. For seventy-two hours at steablo an' plow, An' not a bit more ta tha people I mix wi', An' keeps all tha rest jest ta grease tha fat sow. They telled 1 'twere wicked ta sing and ta whistle. An' danged if I chirrup'd for meny a year, Fur I felt loiko a jackass content with a thistle, An' trembled all over wen measter were near. Thay telled I ta pray, an' i prayed loike a good 'un, I prayed for a fortin', somo sheep an' a cow. But whilo I was prayin', they stole all our common, Bekase it were wanted ta grease tha fat sow. The squiro has jest bin and taken our gardin'. An' sent a poor chap off to j.ail for. a bare; So I toll'ee tho life as we lade bo a hard 'un And danged if I think wo shall change 'it by prayer. 16 KIMBURTON, Tfe fund out tha humbug o" parson's religun, Fur I turns it all over wile driyin' ma plow ; It prepares a pour fule ta be plucked loike a pigeon. An' helps tha rich squire ta grease tha fat sow. Thare be good texts in Scriptur, but parson d won't heed 'ni, Thar be sum that poor people cud well un- derstand. An' tha time's comin' fast wen we poor foke '11 read 'em, Au' prach 'em a sarmint on labour an' laud; All thay're prayin' an' prachin's done leetle or nuliln' Ta rase sich as I from this terrible slough : I'se fund out thay're sarmints be only goose stuffin', Or else tbay be summat ta grease tha fat sow. DONE BY A YOKEL. Tom Jenkins, a Londoner, bred, born and reared, For a holiday trip into Buckingham steered, A county that Albert Smith, ready and quick, Onco likened, I'm told, to a droTcr's pronged stick. It was put as a riddle to be read by experts, And the answer, " It runs into Oxon and Herts." But now to my tale:— "Tom Jenkins came down For a holiday trip to this old county town. And ho lodged, so I'm told, at an inn called 'The Crown.' By a true love of natural liistory stirred, Tom said to himself, ' I'll take home a bird.' So, rising next morning, he searched tree and bush, In the hopes that he might find a blackbird or thrush. But of course you all know, From linnet to crow, These artful nest weavers Are cunning deceivers. Well, Tom gave it up as a bad job. at best, He had searched high and low, but he could'nt find a nest As in dudgeon he passed by the four-acre stile, He accosted a ploughboy with good-natured smile : 'I say. Master Joskin, Chawbaeon, I mean, Can you tell me wherever a nest's to be seen ?' ' Not jest now disactly,' the yonker replied, ' I might have known one, but the builders both died.' ' I want a nest furnished,' cried Tom, in a pet. To the poor country lad whom by chance he had met : 'I've been searching for hours, in tree, shrub and bush, And vainly, to find out the home of a thrush.' * Egad ! ' said the youth, with a grin on his face, 'Then I tell'ee, good sir, this beant the right place.' ' Indeed, Clod, why not ? don't thrushes build here ? ' ' No, sur, that they don't, that be sartin and clear.' ' Ay, indeed, is that true ? ' ' Why not ?' Tommy cried. ' Cos they build over theare,' the youngster replied. ' They build over theare,' with mocking grimace. Cried Tom, as a scornful smile passed o'er his face. ' Over theare ! over yonder ! ' said Giles, don't yor see ? There be one, I be told, in 'most every tree.' 'Why don't they build here .^ ' said Tom, in great doubt. After trying, in vain, the cause to find out. ' I'll tell'ee,' cried Giles, with a queer sort of leer, ' The reason why thrushes don't never build here.' ' Well, blow me, why is it ?' cried Tom, get- ting warm, 'Becos', sur, yer see, this be Old Crow'B Nest Farm !' " —0— KIMBURTON. 17 THE VILLAGE NATURALIST. SVo buried the owd chap up yonder ; Ho was closo upon eighty years old, And ho died in that ero littlo cottage, That's got a bill up "To be Sold." An' that be his bit of a garden, An' that be his favourite tree, Where, under its branches, in summer, He used to nuss Betsy an' me. Vou heord of his death, I dossay, sir; Ho was drown by the floodgates, down there ; He had bin out a doin' a summat For him as lives down at the weir. \'er see he was fat'rly past labour. An' subject to fits now an' then ; But, of course, it was work or the workus, An' he'd sworn to keep clear of that den. •'Not saved?" well, ho might, just a leetle. That is, if he'd bin all alone. But then he'd a daughter, a widder. An' she was ''the bone of his bone ; " An' when she was pratty nigh starvin', He guved her what money ho had, To keep out owd Mason, the broker. An' feed the poor soul an' her lad. You heerd he was smart for a yokel; Yes, he wasn't a hignorant fool; Ah ! there Master Stranger you've licked me, I don't know the name of his school; Ho used for to say it was " Natur," But that seems a leotle bit queer, For I've spent all my life in this willage, And nose on us knows it down here. Oh, yes; he left peapers behind 'im; " Where be 'em ?" I fancy they're sold, They wore seized on for rent by his landlord, Far more nor a big box 'ud 'old. They were all about reptiles an' fishes, An' beastios an' things as run wild, An' all as he'd noticed about 'em Since he was a bit of a child. No ; he wasn't not much of a scholai'd ; But he larn'd how to read an' to write ; " Find time ?'' Well, it warn't when the sun shone ; He used to sit up of a night; No ; ho didn't used to go to the public. He said it was time throwed away, But he kept lots of hinsecks about 'im, An' did pratty much as you say. He was fond of all them sort o' creeters, An' knowod all their ways to a tick ; He'd a frog as he'd christened " Aunt Sally," An' a funny old toad ho called " Dick." " Didn't know him ?" Not Dicky an' Sally? Lord luv yer ; he'd only to call, An' Dick 'ud crawl out of the cellar. An' Sally from under the wall. Yes ; he was worry partial to spiders. And waspos, an' sich kind o' things. An' ho kept adders' lard in a bladder, To euro their bites an' their stings; And if over a lad o' the willage Got bitten or stung, he was sure. To run to " Old Billy"," —that's feather- To rub in the stuff for a cure, "'Bout the peapers?" ah, yes, I'd forgotten I mean for to have a good look; Why, bless me ! but now I remember, He copied 'em into a book, " Who's got it ?" Well, blessing to fortun' He lent it to my son to read ; It tells about all kinds o" warmints, The time and the way they all breed. I've got it ; look hero be a summat, 'Bout fishes, and frogs, and the like. An' here is a bit of a drawin' Of a nest that was found in a dike ; An' here bo some seeds as birds live on, All pictur'd for people to see, An' there be some plants as he gathered, An' shells he fished out o' the sea, '• How- lucky !'' yeu say, well, it be, sir, "You'll print it," if I give yer leave ; You'll put feather's name on the title, " An' what do yer say shall you give ?" Well, the price, sir, to you'll be nothin', It isn't a worry big sum ; So. I'll trust yer, although you're a stranger. To give it me next time j-er come. A HORRIBLE CRIME. They've got him at last and hell nab it, Said Jenkins who worked for Lord John, He was caught in tho hack, sir, jest proper, By old Bailiff Burgiss's son. It beant the fust time by a many, He's bin seen a-prowlin' down there. He'd got a big jack in his pocket Aa long, sir, as long as that 'ere. 18 KIMBURTON. Threo months ; be tho lot as they'll give 'iiu. Three months in tho big county jail, A-turaing a mill without wator, And devil a rag of a sail ; And sarvo him well right, tho himposter, For who in his senses could dream That folks who be always a-starving, Would dare to catch lish in a stream. When God put 'em into tho water To sport, an* to breed, an' to swim, D'yer think as he meant 'em for wittles For sieh ragged rascals as 'im? D'yer think he had ever a notion Of what I calls wermin should dine. Off danties took out of a river, By means of a rod an' a line. He sed as how rivers an' fishes Was made for tho good of us all; An" as takin' a fish from a river Warn't collerin' one from a stall. Then he sed as he meant to have justice, An' didn't care for measter a bit. Nor yet for the magistrates either Who're called on the bench for to sit. He said as a fish arn't a owner, Xo more nor a rook nor a crow, That some one much bigger an' better Fust taught them 'ore waters to flow. Well. I dun no who's bigger nor measter, Nor one who be better than he ; I have ten bob a week for my sarvice, An' so had my dad afore mo. Egad I things bo comin' to summat When paupers think God thinks o' they; An' gemmen who've ruled here for agea Be challenged like measter to-day. He's tho cheek of old Holliver Crumble Who smothered a king on his tlirone ; That villian, too, wont out a fishin' In waters that wasn't his own. By Jove ! it be summat quite hawful To think what some people will d::re ; He'll some day bo chumin' salvation, An' say he's a right to a share. He sed as the river beant meas-ter's. An' fishes by no one is fed ; I wuuder how folks wi' such notions Can over lay down in their bed. I wonder such chaps isn't haunted ; They can't have their sen.ies, that's clear; It may do for them 'ere Vjlossed Yankees, But danged if we 11 have it down 'ere. Let each on 'em keep to their station. Whatever his station may bo, An' some day, if measter should want 'em, He'll make 'em as well off as mo ! A SLAP AT THE GAME LAWS. Well, blessed if they laws Isn't curus, I can't understand 'em, that's plain. There's Joe Thatcher sent off to prison, For Uilliu' a hare down the lane. He fast seed it eatin' his garden, When frighten'd, it started to run, An' Joo who's a very fair marksman, Lot fly wi' his old-fashioned gun. I seed her roll over and over, An' then flounder down in the mud ; An' then I seed Stilwoll, the keeper, A staggin' o' Joe from the wood, An' 'fore I 'ad time for to warn him, Joe collar'd tho haro as she lay, An' sayin' she'd make a good supper. Was quietly marchin' away. Ho hadn't got so wery much furder, When, clearin' tho hedge by the wood. The keeper sprung out in the roadway, An' right afore Joey he stood, An' sed, " Yon must go to the manshun, ' Wlien Thatcher begun for to cry. But it warn't for hissolf as ho did it, But them as was starvin' close by. I hears as they've guv'd 'im a fortnit, An' some on 'em ses it bo light. But I have bin think in' it over, An' askin' mysol'', ''Is it right ? " Should poor chaps bo sent off to prison For catchin' a rabbit or hare, While tho squire goes bangin' 'em over, With nuflin' whatever to fear? What right had the boast in Joe's gardin* A stcalin' of poor people's food ? An' sposen as Thatcher, for trespass. Had summon'd tho owner o' wood? I specs as how he'd a got larfed at. For this bo tho law, don't yor see? A hare ain't a cow or a bullock An' Joe couldn't a fix it on ho. That hare p'rhaps was born on our common. Or, down there, on Nobody's Land, Or it might have bin over at Chalfont Where first it crept out of the sand. Well, lioro's how thoni matters bo settled As justice will tell yor quite clear; If yor firo a gun and should kill one. The sqiure lays claim to that hare. It don't mind a bit who has fed it. Or whore it should chance to be born; If it lived upon Old Jobson's clover, Or fed upon Jonning's corn ; KIMBURTON. 19 It bo squire's the same, take my word on't, So all as you've got for to do, Id to Mow it to eat up your gardin' Au' thou, if it likes, to eat you I PLUCK V. COWARDICE. Thoy tolls me to rest and bo thankful, But dang'd if I can. that's a fact. An' acos I get spoutin' o' justice, The villagers say I bo crack 'd. Well, the least scd, yer know, soonest mended, But I arn't quite so sure o' that 'ore, For I fancies it's wiser and bettor, To speak out yer mind without fear. Jest show me the good done by silence, An' keepin' yer thoughts to yersolt ; It bo putting good broad in a cubbord, To rot on a bit of a shelf ; It's a swallerin' seed as wants settin', To bring forth a harvest o' good ; There be only one reason I'm laughed at. An' that bo I arn't understood. You must open yor mouth to get wittles,' You'll starve if yor keep it too close, For a quiet game isn't the best 'un When you"ve got such a leotle to loose. If you're hurt, holler out, that's my maxum, An' some ono'll lend yer a 'and ; It is better to bite if yer bitton Than berry yer head in the sand. «* You're sartin to get into trouble. An' the Squire will be on your track," Well, I sharn't run as quick as a greyhound With this 'ere big load on my back ; But why should I go for to swaller Them words that I know to be true, If I feels that there be summat in 'em To lift up poor fellows like you ? There, don't put yourself in a pother 'Bout trouble I'm going to get in. When I've met trouble forty times over I don't funk to face it agin. An' I don't care for Squire a ha'poth ; My ox isn't fed in his stall ; Though yer cringe cos he's got a big title, He's only a man artor all, I can worship a man who be honest. No matter if leotle or big, But I don't care a bit for those fellers Who treats a poor chap like a pig An' who thinks, cos he's up in the sturrupa. An' seated a bit at his ease, He's a right to tho whole o' the roadway — To ride ua all down shouM ho please. Tho land ho has got was half stolon, Of that I bo sartin an' sure ; Only look at that big slice o' common Ho collar 'd away from llio poor ; And where be that Hold as was loft U8, To oddicate them as can't pay ? Arn't it closed in that park by thorn palins A facin' us over the way ? ''He's a comin,' " well, run, like a coward, An' don't bo seen talkin' to me ; You will find out you lads o' the village. That isn't tho way to get free. An' when I bo dead an' half rotten. Them kids as bo going to school. Will practice tho lessons I'm prachin', An' show yer I wasn't a fool. THE PRESENT AND FUTUR.' I be told that my measter, old gaffer, Be got as much money as squire, An' sum on 'em ses ho could soil up One half the rich folk o' th' shire. Now " Nothin' they ses comes from nothin'," But where bo the truth of that 'ere? When meastor, onco poorer than I be, Be richer than many a peer? You should just hoar that queer joker grumble. An' croak like a whole pond of frogs. He be always a saying o' summat, 'Bout going headlong to the dogs ; But tho journey, I thinks, bo a long 'un. An' measter must move moighty slow, Or else he'd a got to the kennel A tarnation long time ago ! He be dressed up in corduroy trousers, An' wears an' old smock an' felt hat, An' to see him a readin' o' peapers, You'd think him as blind as a bat; But just drop a fardon and try 'un. An' whether it's light or it's dark. Them crooked old fingers of his'n. Will stretch like a shot to the mark. I have worked forty years for the gaffer, In suushino, in storm, and in calm, An the grave o' th' strength o' my manhood' Be stretched over Blackberrry Farm ; 20 KIMBURTON. The flesh which those bones oughter carry, For loetle or notbin' I"vo sold, But God knows its acted like magic In turnin' them black sods to gold. Lor, luv ycr, I arn't 'fraid o' labour, I'm willin' to work as can bo ; But, somehow. I feel myself goin' ; Them workin' parts isn't so free, My joints seem all turned into fixturs, An' muscles arn't got their right play, An' since I've bin touched in the bellus, I arn't felt a bit over gay. There be naught that I see but the workus, A lookin' me straight in the face, Well, feather, he died there afore me — It seems the last home of our race ; There be notliin' in this world to hope for, At least not for poor folks like I, An' the " lump " be as good as a palis, For them it will comfort to die. I don't envy measter his riches ; We chaps have to grin an' to bear But I fancy the time be fast comin' When pointsmen ^\•ill shout out "Line clear ! ' An' the train that bo 'lotted to workmen ^Yill shoot by the " specials " and win ; Au' measter 8 who take after gaffer, Will jest have to bear and to grin! THE WOODEN-LEGGED FAMILY. I have sin some most comical figgers A walkin' about in my time, But the funniest ones to my fancy Were those I will pictur' in rhyme. When wooden legs came into fashion, I couldn't for the life of me say ; But as heads made of wood date from Adam, They're not quite so ancient as they. Dick Goodchild, the one-legged cartwright, I've known the best part of my life : I was up at the church when he married Kate Carter, his wooden-legged wife; I was there when his first child was christened A cherub with eyes of pale blue — An' it's strange wliat I'm going to tell yor: Their child had a wooden leg too. Dick Goodchild was fond of his garden— An acre at least, so 'twas said — An' worked it both mornin' and noontido When alack in his cart-making trade. He dug it, he raked it, manured it. An' when ho had got it prepared, An' set out to plant his potatoes. The work by all Goodchilds was shared. The old man went first for to guide 'em. His wife followed swift in his track. The child with blue eyes followed after, With a basket of seed at her back. Each wooden leg served as a dibber ; Thus saving all back-aching toil; And the child with the seed-lip behind her Kept droppin' the seed in the soil. When the 'taters were dug in the spring-time They were plenty, the land being good. But somehow their flavour warn't fancied— They tasted a deal of the wood. They were mealy and thin-skinned and spot- less But villagers said as a joke. When speaking of Goodchild's potatoes. His ash-leaf was flavoured with oak. The cartwright was lucky and prospered, And when quite a fortune was made. He threw down his spoke-shave and mallet, And quitted the cart-making trade ; And just to keep doing of something, He took the beershop at the side; And, never by Fortune deserted. He kept the " Three Legs " till he died. JIM BLAKE. The thoughts of Jim Blake never wandered, They moved in a circumscribed space ; Their boundary lines were not distant, And plain as the nose on your face ; He thought about home and his youngsters, And Betsy, his rosy-cheeked wife ; And she who in sickness bad borne him, And fed him with part of her life. If they wandered a little bit further — To wages to keep them alive, Thoy were only like bees on a journey Who never lost sight of the hive. All thoughts seemed to move on a pivot. No matter how far thoy might roam, And the fixture on which it kept moving Was anchored to poor Jimmy s home. His was terrible work in the winter, But that brought nor trouble nor care, The spot that required his labour Was certain to find Jimmy there ; KIMBURTON. 21 And as for the weather he scorned it, It came from the ^roat God above, And f it was what he caUod " duty," 'Twas still to bo tempered by love. iHo'd tried it, at all times and seasons. In sunshine, in frost, and in rain ; iHis faith in its worth never wandered, 'Twas as true as the heat to the flame. It melted the snow in his pathway. It cooled down the heat of the sun, .And, no matter what weather befell him. Ho worked till his day's, work was done. The dread of his life-time was sickness, Eut that, if alone, he might boar ; But what, when a poor widowed mother Was bout«d his afflictions to share ; But what when his wife and his children Were called on to suft'or a part. He'd confess that the thought of it weakened The courage that lived in his heart. iHo kept a firm faith in God's mercies, And strove to keep sad thoughts away. And finally banished the fancies That filled his stout heart with dismay. iHis children grew up strong and hearty, Stuck true to their own parent stem, •And comforted him in his old age As he had once comforted them, A MOTHER'S TEARS. It's a very fine lesson you toach, mum, 'Bout all things be done for the best ; 'But you don't know the loss of an angel ^Yho pillowed himself on your breast ; And nsod to look up to you smiling. Anil fill you with joy the long day. lOr yer wouldn't talk to me about comfort When death stole my darling away. .1 know it be very good feeling That prompts yer to say as yer do. But vor eyes never looked in thorn eyes, mum, And they never smiled upon you ; 'Or else yer wouldn't talk about crying. And say it was wicked and bad ; Or prate about God's love and mercy, And tell mo I ought to be glad. Yer see I be not blessed with riches, I be only a labourer's wife. And I didn't get a stranger to feed him, But gave him a part of my life ; And the love that took root in my heart, mum, Though widowed, will never decay ; But the loneliness born of his absence Has stricken my soul with dismay. I know I have cried very often, I know that I fool very sad. But don't toll a poor lonely croetor She ought to feol happy and glad. I didn't make the tears that bo falling, I didn't put sad thoughts in my head, And what bo they there for, my lady. If not to have life and be shed ? Don't tell mo I ougjit to bo happy. And don't say its wicked to cry, Nor tell me f liat God in his goodness Would rob a poor mother like I ; I know it be kindness of heart, mum, That prompted them words meant to cheer, But I can't find the comfort in preaching That comes from tho loss of a tear. -0 — THE SOILED DOVE. Sho were, sir, a real good-for-nothing— A creeter as no one could tamo ; And yet, when I first knowed tho damsel She knew not the tarnish of shame ; You see, she were very gooddooking, And that be as much as to say That, no matter wherever she wandered, Temptation stood right in her way. It were pleasant to hear her sweet voice, sir, Eeal music to hear the lass speak. And roses, sir, real living roses Had bloomed on her lily-white cheek ; And foolish folk used for to praise her. And that made the poor thing quite vain, And the G(juire that owns all the village Cast on her the very first stain. After that she was wantonly shameless — The passion for vice grew more strong; Or, it may be. she might have gone blind, sir, And couldn't tell the right from the wrono- But God in his mercy will judge her, It isn't for mortals like we ; Heaven don't cast all blame on the fallen And let their base tempters go free. 22 KIMBURTON. THE RIGHT 0' WAY. The prettiest walk of the village Encircled the Squire's estate, It passed o'er a stile near the common, And on through a little swing gate; It skirted a wood in the hollow, Where cowslips and primroses grew, And then scaled the sides of the mountain Where beauty burst full on the view. ^was a favourite walk on a Sunday, On work-days, when labour was o'er, A filice of the Garden of Eden, That Providence kept for the poor. 'Twas healthful, and sheltered, and lovely. And, better by far, it was free, Commanding rich stretches of landscape, And, far in the distance, of sea. There lovers would oftentimes wander, And children in inuocence play. There the toilworn, the heart-sick and weary Would whistle their sorrows away ; And plucking the flowers around them. Fond parents would often be found. With nosegays of clustering rose-buds And violets crowding around. No threat of" its loss ever moved us— Long heritage making it ours ; For us, 'twas enlivened by song birds, For us, it was bordered with flowers. It was free as the winds blowing round it, For all, like the blue sky above ; In a world that was cruel and selflsh, A remnant of brotherly love. But at length came a terrible whisper. That spread like a wave far and wide, That the right of the poor to the pathway Offended a rich neighbour's pride. That, sitting in close consultation, The squire and lawyer agreed, That rights unto slaves who are landloBS Are subject to landlords in need. There was only one doubt that disturbed them. One cause for a moment's delay. The priest who had taken Christ's mantle, The pastor who taught us to pray. The squire laughed loud at the notion. And cried " If that's all, we are free, Tlie right to the living and glebe lands, Has passed from my parent to me. "But, tut, man. by aid of the bottle, ni wash all his vain scruples down, Or. failing, ho talks of rebellion, I'll Btrip him of surplice and gown. I'll give him a text of my choosing. And from that ho shall preach, lino by line, I don't care a curse foi his blaster, I'll prove him a servant of mine. "Just write from dictation this letter: ' Todmordon, 7, 9, '62, A few friends will meet at ' The Manor,' On Saturday next, about two.' Subscribe with my name, and just post it, And then leave the matter and see, All, all will go right as a trivet — The footpath reverting to me." "The poor? curse the poor, my dear fellow, The law can decide, if they choose ; You know very well as a lawyer, The poor in such cases must lose. You've only to pile up expenses, Heap cost upon cost ; and my word. To talk about poor persons winning Because they have right, is absurb." Now mark how this braggart succeeded. The parson gave into his will. The lawyer saw no more objections. That kept back the grist from his mill. And the stile by a fence was supplanted By noontide the very next day, And the beautiful path thro' the meadows, Was lost as a free right of way. SECOND AND LAST ACT. The green grass has covered the footway, And dasies sprung up here and there. And straight from the azure above it. The lark with his song fills the air. And hedgerows, so silent through winter. Are garrulous all the day long ; And breezes that float o'er the pathway, Are laden with perfume and song. The old deed of wrong is forgotten ; There's no one to talk of it now. Though it once formed the theme of the village To gossips who met at "The Plough." 'Tis a folly to dream about danger From helots down-trodden and poor, " You have only to fight," thought the Squire, " And victory's certain and sure." Still the wrong shall not flourish for ever Tho bravo men that conquered of old ; The song that breaks out of the silence ; The life that leaps out of the cold ; Tho daylight that pierces tho darkness ; Tho rivers that swell the big sea — Are lessons of life and of forces, That teach men to set themselves fzeo. HIMBURTON. 23 Away in that lono littlo village, Bravo forces are gathering yet, Unknown to the Squire and Lawyer, Who over a bottle have met. iUnknown to tlio Parson, who's coming To join in the dance and the song ; A spaniel to fawn ou his master ; A priest with the gift to do wrong. The bushes the Squire had planted To block up the old right of way, Are teeming with satin-leav'd roses, And bunches of crimsou-tipped may ; It is onlj' the black board above them That bids the wayfarer pass on, And tells to the peasant who reads it. The right to the pathway has gone. ' What mean such loud shouts and commotion ? What all that disturbance and noise, ^Wrhat has called all that vast crowd together Of women, of men. and of boys ? •What mean those loud cries of defiance From men armed with shovel and spade ?" "They are clearing away," said the parson, '• All the fencing your honour has made." In a moment theso worthies had started, In anger, alarm and surprise, ITo learn how the wrath had been kindled ; Whence tumult had taken its rise. ITo be bearded by Farrell the craftsman Known all through the village as Ben — ^Ind to hear the loud shouts of derision. From slaves metamorphosed to men. The Squire presumed on his courage. The Parson on words he could speak, The Lawyer checked both with a whisper, Which said, " 'Tis the law you must seek ;" \.nd so 'twas agreed and the loader Was summoned the very next day, For riot and trespass, and breaking. The fence to the old right o' way. The battle thus fought has long ended, The path to this day remains free, \\nd the name of that sturdy old craftsman, Is honoured by you and by me. For the love that in kindness he bore ns, For his pluck through the long-pending strife, For lifting us upward and onward, To freedom, the fountain of life. The spring- tide has rushed back to greet na, And is kissing the flowers once more. The woodlands are teeming with songsters, Who trill their wild notes as of yoxe, And lovers with lovers commingle, And sport in the llush of tuoir pridp. By the pathway that runs through the mea dows, To clamber the steep mountain side. Fond mothers are gathering posies, For youngsters who gambol around. And, threading the pathway at sunset. New seekers for health may be found. And there's joy in the dip of the valley. On mountain and sky overhead. And stretching away in the distance, A banquet of beauty is spread. Let us keep up the courage of England, Let UB cling to our own native hhore, And whenever wo fight in the future, Do battle for England's own poor ; What care we for barren adventure. For broils upon land or on sea ? If tyranny ruloth around us. And none, save the rich, can be free. What matter how beauty is scattered. What riches kind nature may bring, The harvest of antumnal fruitage. The flowers that follow the spring ; If tyranny strips us of freedom, And lawyers and parsons who pray, Join hands with the large-acred Squire And barter our birthright away ? If in future we're asked to do battle. Let's ponder, and count up the cost ; For nations that fight without thinking, Are sure to be evermore lost. We are ready to fight all invaders. Who to plunder or conquer may come, But the foremost of foemen to thra'^h, boyg. Are those who oppress us at home. A WARM LECTURE. They may tell yer live pork isn't knowin', A donkey is wus nor a fool ; But suppose yer'd bin stuck or a common. An' that was yer only school, D'yer think yer would know much o' logick. Of grammar an' that kind o' stuff ? I fiincies, despite of yer boastin's, Yer'd cut up, my lad, pretty rough. Jest look at them pigs and them asses. As I have bin doin' each day ; Jest watch 'em when Imvin' tlieir dinner. An' when they be turned out to play j 2t KIMBURTON. ** No feelin' ?" " No brains ?" that bo gammon, Sich looks isn't born without sense ; On'y look in the eyos of them creetore, A peepin' at you through the fence, A pig arn't a chance to git larnin', A donkey arn't paid to bo wise ; If yer vrent in for gruntin' an' kiukin', DVer think yor eouUl collar the prize ? I can tell yer you'd never be in it, Yer wouldn't stand a chance wi' them coves, An' artcr the tussle was over, Yer'd fly off as quiet as doves. Suppose yer'd bin fed upon thistles, An' slept in a shed or a sty, D'yer think yor would look like a gem'man. An' hold up yer head half so high f I've a fancy as how your lino linen And manners would soon pass away. An' instead of yer talkin' sich nonsense, Yer'd just be content for to bray. Well, in course, what I means, be poor people. You treats 'em as pigs, don't yor see, An" what, darn my rags, be yer 'pinion O' gallus-hard workers like mo ? Arn't we brutes to bo treated like asses, Without any feelin' or sense ? Arn't we robbed of a sight of yer worships, Esceptin' we peep through a fence ? For years we've bin kept out o' schoolin', An' in course we arn't polished like you. But guv' us a lottle bit longer, An' time will prove what we can do ; We'll teach you to treat us like brothers. An' as for our going the pace, Why, darned if I won' t bet yor tuppence, You're jolly nigh out o' the raco. JUSTICE HARVEY AND HUBERT. HIS SON He was only a bit of a younkor. And w^asn't no more nor that high. When they coUar'd him down by the footpath, For takin' a swede on the sly. But they said as how Jack was a warmint, Whoso gamo was to " loaf " an' to play, An' that mado it needful for safety, To send the young sinner away. The justice was Old Squire Harvey, A cross-tempered, crusty old soul. Who stood years ago for tlio county, An' corned in a-top of a poll ; But he couldn't stand the jeers an' the laughter That rose from the Parliament men, . When he floundered in inauin' some speeches, And broke down agen and agen. The papers they peppered him hawful, And pictur'd him dressed like a fool ; With a tall paper-cap on his forehead, A-standin' a-top of a stool ; An' at length he couldn't bear it no longer. An' sought out the usual release, So the dunce who broke down at St. Stephen's Was turned to a Justice of Peace. He'd a son of his own, Master Hubert, A clean-fashioned, rosy-cheeked youth, But the neighbours who know'd him would whisper, "A leetle bit hard in the mouth." But that was because he'd been play'd with, And pampered, and petted, and spoiled ; From his youth to the verge of his manhood, ' They humoured him jest like a child. Well, at lasf, be kicked over the traces, , Broke loose, an' soon ran into debt, Gave bills to a Jew in the city. And floundered about in hie net ; An' then ho got mixed in a swindle. To chisel that very same Jew, An' the Justice, in order to "square it," Was mulct of a thousand or two. , A full score of years have passed over, Since Hubert fell into disgrace, An' the hot burning tears of repentance Left traces of care on his face ; , Since the hard-featured, hard-tempered justice,.' Who lived for tho pride of a name, , Swooned down on the fioor of his mansion. And died in his chagrin and shame. It is strange how the poor folk forgave him, : And sense of wrong faded away, How the villagers called back his virtues — Tho good deeds he did in his day ; , It is strange, but it's well that it is to, That hates with mortality cease ; For Nature had mado liim harsh-tempered. And Folly s Justice of I'eace. He knew nought of life and temptation, Whero Mercy 'd tho right to step in, Ho had nourished his hato against stealing, , " And called it a cardinal sin. And, in course, ho warn't equal to justice, , To punish and also to spare ; But the fault lay along with his betters, , Who stuck him in Justice's chair. KIMBURTON* 25 Whon tho son took tho seat of the father, The old stories cropped up aLjain, 'Bout tho swindle, tho carakaturin'. And taunts o' the Parliament men. And the moaly-mouthod said as how Hubert, Warn't fitted to fill uj) the place, And, in secret, a good deal was spoken, That no one dared toll to bis face. But tho wisoheads bo often mistaken, The boy not the man had done wrong ; Tho mind that guv' way to temptation. Grew suddenly healthy and strong ; And its justice was tempered by mercy, To younkers whose youth went astr»j' ; And Billys who peppered tho tur^.^>B, Were cautioned and sent off to play. HODGE'S PKESUMPTION. It be all very well to say Natur' Is bowed down by systems and rules, But them as puts that in their sarmints Be nothin" but tarnation fools; Fve bin studyin' up that there subjec' For many a long, weary day, And I fancies I'm in a persition To claim to have summat to say. Now let us jest look at the weather, What system or rule have wo here? One day it bo rainin' o' pitchforks, Tho next 'un's all shiny and clear ; Then follers a kind of a mixtur', A sort of l)low hot and blow cold, — If yer start to make hay in tho sunshinOj Ten chances to one but you're sold. Now, where bo your rule and your system .-' I don't see 'em here, nor cau you ; One minnit, the sky's black as thunder; Tho next 'un, soit-feotur'd and blue. You may burn all yer sarmints and locturS; Thoy beant worth a straw as I see ; Now, I don't mind a bit o' good prcachin', But nonsense don't go down with me. A' e igle's perwided with talents. As sharp as a needle an' strong ; The wiper's a big bag o' pisen, An' woman is armed with a tongue ; They all be tho gifts ot Dame Natur', Au' Natur', you say, be a gem ; But doesn't sich weppons mean wictims Aad where be her kindness to them T She isn't bard up, that le sartin', She's riches enow and to spare ; But when she distributes her favors, Do poor chaps, like I, get their share ? Kind Natur'! good Natur' ! all gammon r. There's summat gone wrong, if she be J Or a lot of darned rogues, I've a notion, Be standing between her and me. — o— 2G k SAM'S PHYSIC. KIMBURTON. ,/ Qi^ j^yes, I he ill^ ycryill. sir/ 1^ j ' •Jiuw long t " 4 tl'or a tu^elvemonth,' or more J ^VAnd you're iioi over rich, I've a fancy? " *' Oh, no, I be poor, wery poor. I had laid up a trifle for winter ; You 're right, sir, it did n't reach to pounds ; ^]\Iy club was paid up to a farden. But sick i^ay be run out o' bounds." " I see ; yes, I see how the cat jumps ; Your pulse ? Ah ! as low as can be ; Just put out your tongue — a bit further — The fever's quite gone, I can see : You are not getting strong ? " j j' Ko, I ^ beant, sir," H "And a lwa ys tccl tired and low j " arn t"no more strenjith tlian a hinfant Tiie sweat; s^tmrrtys thick on my brow. " There, don't talk any more ; 'twill dis- tress 3'ou, I know how you feel very well. And the jihysic to pull you together, And make you as sound as a bell." ' ' XliUiB,wwchj..aijvliaJLailiid£j-^^ .^Ij^heartj^ t be ki cking pnce m ore ! ' Gxk I bles s^er !' bewery ~poor ?o~rub oL iTlrfn oity big score. ' " -^^K^ m y blessin p ^j I boant got no_money, " T3TII t;()TnfiTrf, yftr w jie n_yer get s^Id j And it" I be it ricli uian t-)Mao?r^TT~ ^ wT" fPtn|aiK re"ov e vy word into gold ;_ L. it y fa r be si clc, a nd 1 st rong, iiil ^Iitch ycr troni mo rnin \V]|,,"1J t-.iiii.; (l()UiT~aud pii t^ j;cr__all Ail jtilLuidik -rij 'ht " Now, the physic 1 'm going to order, Is such as the fiarish don't give ; But I 've tested its life-giving power. And with it you '11 strengtlien and live ; I liave ordered you chops from the but- cher, And bread from the baker, liard by, And a nine gallon barrel of porter To moisten your lips when you 're dry." " God bless yer ! there 's health in them words, sir, Them's physic poured into my ears ; I '11 call in and tell coffin maker I sha 'n't want his sarvice for years ; I '11 ste p in and te ll my old mea ^ter m ready tor laoon r oilce m"orer _ AndTgn 'e meyel'l'i;i nrl,'sir, God bless yer, Vr-v n IT .;-,.,■, T, -.,-,, • ,1 4..^„ j ^ ^ .,,.r.-^ I " THE LOVERS' QUARREL. " Your fine words don't butter no pars- nips.'" " They never was meant to," ses I ; "Not meant to ? " ses she, in a pashun, With wrath flashin' out of her eye. " It be ten year ago, cpme next harvest, Since fust yer took I for a walk. And the appetite's gone clean away, lad, That feasted itself on yer talk." '•' By gum ! " ses I, " that be plain speak- in'," "It be, lad," .she said, "it be plain ; For ten year I 're lived on soft-sawder, For ten year I 've waited in vain. That 's a pretty big time, let me tell yer, For proud flesh, like mine, lad, to keep ; So, now then, I jest wants yer answer, Be'st ready the broomstick to leap ? " I pertended I did n't understand her. And said, " I can't jump weiy high ; But, if she would get 1 a broomstick, I 'd please her by havin' a try ;" But yer can't take that gal cmt of wind- in'. She jest raised herself in lier clothes. And said, with her eyes lookiu' gimlets. And scorn perched a-top of her nose — " I dessay yer think yerself clever. And fancy you 've said sommat grand ; But I know yer be nowt but a wind-bag That busts with a squeeze of the hand ; Hoity I toity ! " she cried, " Mr. Sammy, A mad dog has bitten yon, sure. Do yer think 1 'm a fiddle to play on — Or polecat to nail to a door ? " " Hold hard ! " ses I, " am you a-bustin' V" "Oh ! no, lad," she said, " I'm quite cool ; I ain't to be put in a pashun By any sich hignerant fool I" KIMBURTON. ?7 I don't want no praching o' sarniints, Nor yet any stirring o' strife, But Yea or a Nay for your answer, Do yer mean to hitch I for a wife ?" I wriggled, and feigned, and I blundered, Though barely a word could I say : I dived in the miul of reflection, Tlien strove hard to break right away ; I got in the weeds and the rushes, And tried every dodge that I knew, Bat she only cried, "Sammy, I've got yer," And don't mean to let yer break through. " I seed it was no use to struggle, So, when I could tind words to speak, I said, "I will hitch you to-morrer," " That's right," she said, bussing my cheek ; For that kiss I gaved her a dozen, And, lor, how she started to cry. But she told me soon after our mar- ridge 'Twas the hunyan she put to her eye . -0 — THE KISSING PATH CURE. OR, LOVE'S When I met 'Liza Walsh in the meadow, I thought she looked mortally' shy. As she squeezed herself up on the path- way To make room to let me pass by ; She was eighteen, or nineteen, or twenty, Or somewhere betwixt or between. And the sweetest and purtiest creeter That mortal eyes ever had seen. **How dy'r do?" said I 'Liza, a-winking, " What makes you so friglitened of me? Do yer think I'm a landshark a-prowlin'. Or devil fish out of the sea / Do yer think I've been down Avith the measles ! Now what be the cause of this ere .' if I'd walked from a grave in the church- yard You needn't to show half the feai-. ** It be useless to try to look ugly, Thear's notliin' to make you afraid ; Don't yer know if j'er crosses this foot- path There's always a toll to be paid ? Now, you smely don't think me a scare- cr(jw, A blaguard, a knave, or a fool ? All I want be jest one of them kisses You saved up for mo wlien at school ?" She pertended to lly in a passion, And shouted to uie, " Jest l)e off!" "Not I, lass," said I, "if I knows it," And then 'Liza turned a bit rough ; But I seed it was put on a purpose. And told her she knew it warn't real ; Then I jest throwed my arms round the maiden, And, lor ! how the beauty did squeal. Then she fainted and fell on my shoulder. And kisses I gave her a score ; But, linding she warn't any better, I thouglit 1 would try a few more ; Then she jest roiled her pretty head over, A-shamming as though she had died ; But I took it to mean, " I'm lop- sided — Place some of 'em on t'other side." Well, I did, and she looked up quite lively. So, lovers of lasses, mark this ! If yer sweetheart comes over like 'Liza Jest tr}' (lie eti'ects of a kiss. And if one be no good, try a dozen, And, failing, increase to a score, Ami if then her head should roll over On t'other side place a few more. If the dose be thought sti'ong, it is plea- sant, I have tried it myself and I know, And whenever my wife feels a fainting The doctor she calls for is Joe. Then I lays her head plump on my shoulder. She shamming as though she was ( i eai 1 , And I've known it to take fifty kisses Before she could lift up her head. KIMBTTRTON. I've a daughter named after her mother. And she had a tit t'other day ; When I said to my ^rife, " Fetch the doctor," ^^^lo only lives over the way. " Fetch the devil," cried she,in apassion, '• The man must be stark-staring mad, I have never took nothing but kisses Although I've been ten times as bad. " Place her head upon Tom Weston's shoulder, And wait for a minnit and see, If he don't cure 'Liza as easy As j-ou in the pathway did me. It's the cheapest of physic 1 knows on, It's pleasant and easy to take, She will die if neglected much longer, Do try it," she said " for my sake. "Now I know you ain't wery fust couzins, I heerd how you stamped, raved and swore, When you caught Tom a kissing of 'Liza, By hiding behind the back door ; But you wouldn't see your poor daughter perish, You beant sich a wretched old elf!" "Is it likely," Icried, "my dear woman? Ill give her the kisses myself I" Then I placed 'Liza's head on this shoulder. And kissed her a dozen times o'er, Then, as she didn't move, turned her over And gave her a round dozen more. While her mother kept all on a grin- ning, And, touching the sweet darling's cheek, She set up a-shouting, " You've killed her ! Them's no good if tried for a week! "They be worthless from men over fifty, I've tried them again and again ; But play as you like with affliction. And sport with her torture and pain. Vou're a brute," she exclaimed, in a jias- sion, "A bnite, Mr. Jenkins, just so ; And I'll tell every soul in the village — Proclaim it wherever I go." When she tinished, I owned I was beaten, And hadn't a word more to say — Tommy put her as right as a trivet And saved us the whole doctor's pay. Yes, my wife gave the lad some instruc- tions, Then said " We must leave them alone" But I thought I would look through the keyhole, And so did the missus, I own. Now, my friend, if by chance you've a daughter And she shows any symptoms like these, Never trouble to send for a doctor, No matter how hiiifh his degrees ; But start, right away, for her sweet- heart, He'll cure your child of all pain, But, it's ten to one, good, I feel sartin, The fainting will come on again. Oh I yes, she is married to Tommy, And blessed with a daughter and son. And I'd wager that she's the same symp- toms Before a score years have rolled on : And I'd wager that boy when sweet- hearting, If aught with his girl goes amiss, Will timl out the best of all physic For fainting is found in a kiss. Lord love yer, they learn it by instinct, TJiey don't want no teaching, not they • It runs on through whole generations, And will tilltlie world shall decay ; I dunno how fust it got started, But the cause and the cure we are told Dates back through the very dark ages — Before the fust man had grown old. When Adam and Eve went a-courting, The fust of all women Avent ill : And the world as we know had no doctor To cure with potion and pill ; He plucked the ripe fruit and the ber- ries. Ami tried thern, one after the other, But the physic he last gave was kisses, That cured my gal and her mo- ther. I KIMBURTON. 2'' WHAT BECAME OF HANNAH. Soe " Country Courtship." You've heard about mo and my Hannah, Who dished mo a long time ago, Well, blarmcd if she isn't down yonder, A-dancin' outside of a show ; Now I dossay yor think I ho 'stonished, Bi.t dashed if I be, that's a fact, I have seed her performance too often, To fancy that Hannah can't act. I confess that I once thought her treacle. And that's what she war, I dessay ; But as soon as I tasted and liked it, The treacle all treacled away; I'm blessed if they sliowfolksboan't rum 'una, They bo christened her Clara de Clare, But I tell'ee her name's Hanuah Juggins, She's was known by no other down here. Now, jest come with I round the corner, There ! that's her with wings, don't yer see ? Dressed up in white musliu and spangles. With clothes that don't cover her knee; Yes, that's her with that ere small bonnet, Pinned on to the top of her crown, There! now she be dancing a good 'un And waltzing about with the clown. Egad ! look at that ! there be dancin', I'm danged if she don't seem to fl}', She looks all the world like a hangel, But her clothes go a leetle too high, I'm blarmed if I don't spend a sixpence I Come ou, lads! I'll show yer the way. There! that's it, sit down, there be Hannah ! That's her as bo doing the play. Hallo ! -who bo that chap, I wonder, A-hiding down there in the wood ? I'm danged if he hasn't got pistols And doesn't mean Hannah no good ; He be fighting that chap come to save her. By jove, there be one for his crown ; Hold on there ! yer black-muzzled rascal And don't hit a chap when he's down. Then I couldn't sit it out any longer, I started right out o' my chair ; And guv'd him one. two, in a minnit, Good lord ! how the people did stare ! *'Do yer want enny more?" ses I, sparrin', " If ye do, you can have it, ses I ; I have sworn to be true to my Hannah, An' damme ! I'll fight till I die !" Well, what do yer think of my Hannah? As soon as she found it was me, She clung to mo sobhin' and sighin', In a waj' it was awful to see. And the clieers wo drew down wore a caution, And those who were there often say. That it wallopped the best bit of acting That ever was seen at a play. Well, arter the play was all over, And the show was shut up for the night, I was sailing across the Low Meadows, When I seed what I thought was a sprite ; But it warn't ! it was sunimat more solid. It was she who had collared my heart, A crying out, '"Joe, dear, forgive me. And say we shall never more part." Well, the end of it was, we got married. And that be the end of my tale, — We live in that ere leetle cottage Yes, that be our house in the vale ; And I fancy her kisses be sweeter. Than when she lived down at the farm, And when I trots out on a Sunday, I still tucks her under my arm. POVERTY AND WEALTH. Yer see that ere fine row o' mansions.. Wi' gardens that stretch right away. Now, who do yer think. Jack, has built 'em ? You don't know the cove, I dessay. Well, I does ; it's that chap a-coming, A-ridiu' that smart-looking cob ; He was born, I have heerd in a workus. And started to trade with a bob ! " All fair?" not a bit of it, Johnny — To plunder without fear or shame, — He went up to town quite a younker, Aiul started the swindling game; Ho fust made a book on the races. Laid odds on the horses that run, And cheated the poor fiats who backed 'em. By welching the lot if they won. Artcr that, just by way of devarsion, He took to what folks call the 'Change, When he did summat queer and they cut him, Whii'h sounds, well, a leetle bit strange ; For it must have been something outragoua To startle them chaps, that bo clear; — I expects he was up to a swindle, And some on 'em hadn't a share! '0 KIMBURTON. Then ho turn-, to what I calls a spider, An" i^pun a great wob on the sly. An' sent out what folks call a 'spoctus, All sugar, and treacle, and lie; And the poor silly dupes they was tempted, — And so, by his falsehood and snares, Ho cleaned 'em all out in a jitYy, And loft 'em to starve on his shares. Then, at length, that ere company busted, When he started another I m told, To buy up the City road-scrapings, And tui-n 'em to real solid gold ; He used up his printing as ground bait, Which brought all the tish to one s])ot ; When his books being artfully kivered He caught a fair share of the lot. The most that he caught was poor widders, Whose husbands had loft them a bit. To keep 'em outside of the workus, — And folk with more money than wit ; As for pity, lord love yer, that's pison To sich chaps as he, you can bet, They cast their barbed hooks in the river And stick to tho swag they can get. Then he married a real parson's darter. And that guved him station, yer see. And that's how it be he's looked up to By folks who would shun you and me. And when he put up for the county, Yer see he was bound to get in. For there's nuilln on earth that folks worship So much as a cartload of tiu. It was " two to one bar none," ho licked 'em. For there's nothing that wealth cannot reach ; The parson in course didn't forget him Whenever he chanced for to jjreach. Ht pii'tured tho rogutj as a hangnl, Called God to confirm what he'd done, And offered up prayers in the puli)it As soon as ilie 'lection was won. Tou and I, Jack, have spent our lives work- ing, In turniui: o' muck into gold ; But wo arn't got a steever between us, Oar wealth is stuck fast in tli(3 mold! Yo'i am t got a brick as I knows on, You arn't got a hLovcI o' dirt. An' as for j'cr wi'e, Jack, God bless her. Jibe's misery wrapped in a skirt! :\IY FUST A\D ONLY SWEETHEAUT. lie warn't much to look at, that's sartia, lie was cast in a queer sort of mould ; But. in course, when a gal is past thirty, She wants to creep out of the cold. It don't do to be too porticklor, (Some women bo tarnation nice), — When a glut hns got into the market. It's sartin to pull down the i^rice. If odd folks were ever made even, And tho women just paired with tho men, Tho gals might hang back, without danger, And pick uj) a prize now and then ; But that game won't pay for the candle. Hook up, gals, an' catch what yer can, By chance it might be a gorilla, A monkey, a frog, or a man. I was wory good-lookin' when younger, Well formed from the neck to the heelj I was thin in the waist, like a spider; And thought to be very genteel. But somehow tho men took to shying, And flopped their affexshuns elsewhere. And I wished I had bin out in Utah, Where every gal gets a share. When fust I seed Billy, my sweetheart, Ho was coming down Crab Apple Lane, With a black cloud a-flying afore him. Jest ready to bust with tho rain; And ho said '• It looks dark over yonder," Then, " There's room under here jest for two." And he spread out his big uml)erolIa, And 1 sed, " I don't care if I do." It was one as tied up like a lettuce, And swelled in the middle, yor see. With a handle as big as a broomsticM Formed out of a sweet-briar tree. And a pair of its ribs had got broken, And its feril was worn right away ; But I'm blarmed if it wasn't a good 'un And did us real sarvico that day. He said " Boo'st thee goin' to chapel?" I said, " Maybo, and maybe I ain't;'' He said '• Hast thou. heerd the new parson?" And called him a reg'lor saint; "Won't yer come?" then ho said, and h© kissed me, I'vo a seat and it's made to hold two And it's hidden away in a corner " I said, '•' I don't care if I do." KIMBURTON. 31 When the sarmint was pratty nigh over, IIo said, '• LrtHs, shall I see thee whoani ? " And ho guved I a bus on the quiet. And I said, " If tlieo loikos, yor may come ; Well, the rain it kept up; but the kisses — Egad, thoy in showers fell fast, And I thought, as 1 looked up at Billy, This shower be too thick to last. It was jest where the bridge spans the river, And two uills slope iuto the dell. Where the baker fell foul of the tinker And. covered in blood, reeled and fell. That Billy stood up right afore me, And said " There's a summat gone queer ; My heart is a knockiu' my ribs out, Just fasten yer hands over here." Well. I put my hands over his weskifc And, lor, how it beat to be sure ; It was jest like old Dobbin a-kickin', The time as he broko steeable door : "What is it ?" said I, " in yer buzzum?" "Press harder and harder," ho cried. And I did, and he said he was better, And then he swooned down by my side. I was wary much cut up about him. And he. too, seemed wery much hurt; When he found that the big umberella Was trod on and kivered with dirt; But slow, by degrees, be recovered, And when he had fairly pulled through, He said, " Will yer have I for husband?" I said, " I don't care if I do." — — A LUCKY FIND. Lor' love'ee! what I fancy Fd cut yer? No, no, lass, I beant done that yet; I'm here, jest as right as a ti ivet. So, come, lassie, diuna yo fret; That's it, look a little bit cheerful, And wipe them big tear-drops away ; Come here, Bet, and set down beside me, And list what I'vo gotten to say. Yer see I was going to parish, Hard up as a mortal could be. Without the least bit of a notion That I was a-going to sea, When I met with Jim Fincher, Jack's brother, The one that bo married to Sue, And, while chatting, I happened to mention I'd leetlo or nothing to do. So, he ups and ho says, " You're a fool, Bill," " What for?" says I, just like thiit 'ere, " Acos, 1 can soo you'ro half starving, When plenty awaits yer elsewhere." " Elsewhere?" says I, ''that bo all gammon, I've heard of sich stories before,'' Then ho pulled out a liandful of shiners, And axed if I'd like to see more. Well, Boeing's bolioving, now, beant it? And " Where did yer got Vm ?" .says I : " Out yonder,'' says he, in a minnit. Whore all can get rich, if thoy tiy; Out yonder, across them big waves, lad, " But straight ?" says I. that bo the thing ?" " Yes, honest !" says Jack, in a passion. " Do yer think I'm a roguo or a king !" " Be yer goin' again " says I to him ; I be, lad," said he — " never foar ; And I wish you would only go with us ; But, d — me ! you mean to starve here; You arn't got a ha'porth of courage," " Oh I haven't I though ?" answered I ; "Well, blow me! " says ho, in a jiiiy, "Jest pack up, and bid 'em good-bye." I'd naught to pack up, as you know, lass, And thought if I came back to you, I should gaze on your sorrow-struck features And be to my promise untrue ; So, for both of our sakes, wife, I wentured, And now read that paper for mo; It be all about lots o' foine nuggets That's coming across tho big sea. I wont to the diggin's at Wagga, And artor we'd dug for a while, I stuck my pick into a gold mine — In digger s words, lass, " I struck ile." There that be the whole of the story. And that's how I parted from you. And here be a coming Jack Fincher, Jest axe him and seo if it's true. Jack was waiting to hear that ore signal, And 'fore you had time to say knife, Ho was in at the door. Lord 'ovo yer! A-kissing o' my darling wife ; And didn't I feel jealous ? Not I. lads, 'Tis jest what a brother should ilo ; If you did her a kindness lil;e that, bovs, I'm blessed if she shouldn't kiss you I You may say that sich conduct beant proper, Or call it a scandalous sin ; But didn't master Jack like them kisses? And didn't she keep rubbin' 'em in ? But arn't we still good friends and neighbours ? And baan't my lass named after ho ? And isn't Jack's own pair of bantums Named after the old gal and me ? 32 KIMBURTON. Of course, it was more luck than judgment, But it didn't turn up at my door, Old England bo rans;ickc I all ovor. And that's why so many bo j)oor. It was luck, but it still wanted fetching, It won't come and settle on you ; You can think on that bit of a story Whenever you've nothing to do. GARNERED. It was just when the spring-flowers blossomed, And trees woro their brightest of green, ■V\'hen the swallow and swiit were returning To give a new life to each scene. That I passed through the door of a cottage, And saw, on a pallet of straw, A picture of cruel desertion. That tilled me with terror and awe. I had left the main street of Kimburton, And crossed o'er the stream by the mill, And was treading the path by its common, That loads to the brow of the hill ; "When I thought I would call on a neighbour, ^Yho lived down in Brokendown Eow, To indulge in a few recollections, Of scenes in the long, long 'ago. With a light heart I stepped o'er the thres- hold, Unheodful of who might bo there, And, stretching my hand out by instinct, Half-blindly walked up to his chair. But, alas ! my old friend had departed, 'Twas empty as empty could bo ; There was naught but the dog by the hearth- stone, To bark out a welcome to mo. For a moment I felt quite bewildered. My heart turning cold as a stone, For i knew he could scarce leave his arm- chair, And pass to the threshold alone ; So I thought I would trespass still farther, And there, in the inner room, saw, The friend whom I loved so in childhood, Stretched dead on his pallet of stravr. I ran to each thatch-covered cottage, And called on the neighbours around, Then I sent for the old village doctor, Who lived at the back of the pound ; But all was in vain, for his spirit Had flown to a far distant shore, And the brave heart that won my afToction, , ^Yas doomed to bo still evermore. There was neither a crust in the cupboard, Nor stick to drive Winter away ; There was naught but a few yards of sack- cloth To cover him up as ho lay; And naught but the grief of his neighbours, Now gathered in haste round his bed. To show that a link has just started, That severed the quick from the dead. — 0- MAD TOM. The folks who live down at Kimburton Be a sample of all human kind, There be some who ne'er sleep, like the weazel, And others more stupid and blind ; But there's one, called the fool of the village, A poor, simple, half-witted man — The child of a well-to-do miller And his victim, onco beautiful Nan. There be few who can equal the miller. Who governs at church and at board, And disposes of this thing and that thing, As though ho had sprung from a lord. He's been long hand and glove with the par- son. And at meetings they all on 'em says : It be wonderful how Master Purkis Can make people groan when he prays. Poor Nancy be gone dead and buried — She died broken-hearted, I'm told — When the heat of her shame came upon her, And Purkis turned callous and cold ; She died in yon poor shattered cottage. That stands at the foot of the hill, A wreck of that innocent beauty That tempted the hend at the mill. It be forty years since she was buried, And few can remember her now. Save those who woro born in the village. And carry Time's stamp on their brow ! But still every child knows her story, And mothers still point to her son.. And strive to impress on their children What Guilt, wed to Folly, has done. The earth has rolled over and over. The child has passed into a man, With just the last glimmer of reason. That clung to the wreck of poor Nan I KIMBURTON. But whither is he who betrayed her? The demon is nourishing still — And gathering gold from the water That passes through Kimhurton mill. There is no one dare fish in the mill-stream, Where God has put lish without end, Save those who dare brave Master Purkis, Or others who call him their frieud ! But the miller has fished in our waters, Ay, dragged them for many a day. Since Tom, the forsaken, half-witted. Came in for his first parish pay. This saint and boon friend of tlio godly, Well wrapped in hypocrisy's mail, Has charged many poor folk with trespass, And sent them to Sottleham jail ! Ay, men he has robbed times and often, Whose children ho plundered for years ; But still he is good Master Purkis, Who wipes out his sins with his prayers. He walks up our street like a lordling, And talks about virtue and love. And dares to proclaim that, like manna. His riches are sent from above ! Till fools iu the parish believe him. And talk of the good he has done ! But the wise shake their heads with suspicion, And point to bis half-witted son. POOR BILL. Poor Bill was a good-natured yokel, But, dang it, he wasn't a fool ; He was wiser by far nor many Who had cudgelled their brains at school. He knew a barn from a haystack. And, conscious of Right and of Wrong, He clung to the words of wisdom That leap from the heart to the tongue. He could bound o'er a gate or a hurdle, And run like a startled deer, And look in the face of danger With never a bit of fear; He was good at a bout of wrestling, And bravo in a stand-up fight, But whenever the battle was over, Bill hadn't a bit o' spite. He never put up for an angel, And he wasn't cut out for a saint. And he didn't take up with religion That hypocrites put on like paint ; Ho was kind, and truthful, and manly, And fearlessly spoke his mind. And put his faith iu the Scripture, And the future of all mankind. When a dance was called in the village, You were sartin to see Billy there. And many a hat from a pole, he Had won at a country fair. Be danged if he wasn't a wander, They may talk of ethers who please, But when Bill was put on his metal- He couldn't be stopped by grease ! You'd find Bill's name in a raffle When anyone's money was spent. And the broker was called to seize on A neighbour's sticks for rent ; And he'd hunt up for bail or for counsel For those who'd been tempted by crime, In tue hope that Nature would give 'em More strength in a future time. When a chap wont sick and was .-lilin*, He never could stay till he died. But would take his turn when called on And watch by the sick-bed side ; And when the parson was waiting. And the bell was heard to sound. With his shoulder tucked under the coflTin, Poor Bill in the front would be found. Bill was fond of a bathe in the river, And could swim like a duck or a drak«. And the villagers watched him with wonder Whenever a lieader he'd take. From the top of a bare-headed pollard He'd dash in the current below, And swift under the ivy-clad archway, 'Xoath the curdling waters he'd go. One day as he stood by the mill-stream, He heard a loud shriek of despair. And turning around, saw our parson With his hands lifted high in the air. In a moment poor Bill stood beside him, When, dashing his billycock down. He sprang in the midst of the waters With courage deserving tho crown. He grappled, and rose to the surface With a youth who had not reached a score. And then, with the stroke of a giant. He boro him away to tho shore ; Then again, ho dived under the waters, And clutched a fair girl by the hair. But she, in return, gripped the swimmer, With a strength only kaown to despair 34 KIMBURTON. They rose to the surface togethor. And then tboy wout down like a shot. With nothing but just :i fow bubbles To mark out the terrible spot ; And there stood the father in anguisli. And tliero lay his boy cold and still. And buried from sight by the w;itors. His girl in the arms of poor Bill. There vras mourning in Kimburton village For many a long weary day ; The pride of it's strength had departed — The purest of souls passed away ; Ev'ry villager felt himself poorer. No matter how poor ho might be ; Two barks had been lost in the ocean, Two argosies sunk in the sea. Should a stranger o'er pass through our vil- lage. And search for the grave of poor Bill, He'll find it in Kimburton churcliyard, Where the paupers lie under the hill. Kot a rail, or a stone tells the virtues Of one who was true to the core, And the bravo deed that cost him his life Is forgotten — because he was poor. PHUl. HARRIS. Old Phil was a regular tough 'un, And wore like a bit of good steel, He showed you the cleanest of platters Whenever ho rose from a meal ; He'd a face fairly tanned by the weather — Each sinew stood out like a thong; He was tifty, and two or three over. As straight as a barrel, and Strang. He rose with the lark in the morning. And trudged it for many a mile, And when ho was gettin' bit tired. Ho seated himself on a stile ; Then ho pulled out, what ho called his " musket," But 'twere one of a voiy queer sort. For he usen't to load it with powder. And I never seed one half so short. Folks wondered what Phi! was a-doing. But I doubt if the wisest e'er knew ; Sometimes ho seemed counting the furrows At others, the crows as thoy ilow ; Sometimes he was gathering simples At others a-watching the brook — Ho was what I should call a good puzzla That weren't to bo read like a book. Hg knew every soul in the parish, What thin crops or thick 'uns would yield— The number of pigs in each litter, The length and the broadth of each field: What l)uttorllies fed upon clover, What l)irds prolerrod thistles to corn; And, ayo, just as well as their mothers, The times when most insects wore born. He knew all the habits of reptiles. The spots whore tho cuuningest lay; Where they wandered abroad in the night- time. Or slept out the long summer day ; It seemed as though one of their number Had malo Phil a priest — and con'"esstd, For he'd track out the cunuingest doorway Disclosing a borough or nest. If you strolled with old Phil by the river, (Jr down to tho Floodgate-pool dyke— He'd point to a spot that was shadj-, And say, " There's a jack, or a pilce !'' And off ho would go, on tho morrow, As i(uiet, as quiet could be. And tho fish that was seen in tho shadow. No mortal could evermore see. It was hard to put Phil in a passion, Ho knew it meant danger a-head; He wasn't a man to bo driven. And too wido-awake to be led; You could teo by tho ways he'd about 'uu, By the bright eyes that lit up his face, IIo was made of tho right stuff to govern. But chance threw him in tho wrong j^lace. I know'd 'un, when I was a younker, His hair was a-turnitig bit grey; He used to come up on our common And watch us when avo were at play; Ho never put hand to a pickaxe, A sickle, a plough, or a flail ; But few in tho parish could boat'un, At drinking a quurt of good ale ! How ho lived, was tho talk of tho village. But that, not tho wisest could tell, Though tho noiL^hbours, who passed o'er his threshold, Said fow ever lived half so well. It was })heasant, ant in a poor simple man. It was Winter, a 'nationly cold one, And tre--s had their coats off to fight, When Farmer Giles said t^) liill Colton, Our sht.ep he in danger to-n"ght ; TheedVt better go round by the mountain. And then tlirou^^h the valley below. For long ere the break uithe morning, I'h: land will be knee-deep in snow. Bill thought not or hardship nor danger, But promise I the work shoukl be done, And, calling liis wily old sheep dog, The dangerous journey begun. Ke crossed o'er the Up-and-ilown MeadowSj Tliat stretch out for many a mile. He lighted his pipe from a lantern While resting at Four Acre stile. Then he took to the heath by the hill-side. And crossed by the lantern's bright ray The track where ihe water for ages Has threaded the snow-covered way ; And then, with a courage unfailing. With no one to steer or to guide, Poor Bill struggled hard up the mountain. While Rover kept clo-e by his side. As he stood at the top, weak and weary, lie saw, from the cottage below, The warmth of his own quiet ingle, With ludiiy light flooi.ing the snow; And he tiiought of his flaxen-haired daughter, The queen ot that wild country side, Whom Willie, the ploughboy, was courting, And trusted to win for a bride; — He thought of the churc'.i in t'le holiow, Wl'.ere he and bis Mary were wed. And then, of that neat tufted hillock, Where "ashes to ashes" was said ; When, sick of his sad, wayward fancies, He s:ruj's{led to set himself free, And launched hi-, old dog like a lifeboat. That fearlessly dashes to sea. '' Go round "em I go round 'em ! good dog, now. Go round \-wi !" his voice rang aloud ; And swift, ere the echo had vanished. The Hock sailed along like a cloud ; '•Afore 'em I and keep 'em together! Now, round 'em ! and round 'em !" again j And so, from the high-lifted mountain, I'hey sallied ilowii into the glen. Tl e snow gathered deeper ar.d deeper. An I numbness seized ev'ry limb; Tlie dark niglit grew darker and darker, " Good ange s take pity on him I" For now the old sheijlierd has stumbled. And rests at the foot of the steep. With none but his faithful dog. Rover, To watch him and guard him asleep. Once more of that lone little cottage. That nestles down the.e in the glen, The light is still burning within it, A Will-o'-the-wisp on the fen ; And there kneels the old sheplierd's daughter, A-praying her father's return, Shut out from ilic world by tl.e snow-drift, By Winter, the cold and the stern ! Then vainly siie stirs the spent embers, And doubtingly goes to her bed. For what is the use of now watching For one who is silent and dead! He died as the lantern grew dimmer, He died as the la-t ember glowed— By what, after all, to the shepherd Was life but a wearisome load ? And now of his trusted companion. So frithful and true to the last: He strove by dumb-motiou to wake him, Nor dreamed that his sp r.t had passed; IJe nestled and fom led to warm him, And shook him to bid him come on, Then stayed through the long dreary night-time. All patience— all kindness — alone ! At length, as the morning was dawning. For whicli he'd been watching so long. The fear that arose in poor Rover Grew actively, sudd.enly strong. And then he alternate y shool; him. And gave a sad wail of despair, Then quickly he ran to the cottage, And carried the sad tidings there. He scratched at the door and kept howling, 'Till Mary arose fiom her bed. Then pulled at her frock without ceasing. And filled her with feelings of dread j KIMBURTON. Till wildly she flew for assistance, And spread far and wide the alarm. And so by the hill side tl'.ey found him — Th« Shepherd of Mistletoe Farm. And HOW to the church in the hollow. The shepherd is carried to sleep, And again 'mid those small tufted hillocks, The neighbours are gathered to weep ; And there stands his orphan, poor Mary, And Willie, the pride of her heart. And now the sad service is over, And so, one by one, they depart. But where is his faithful dog. Rover, Is he not among the sad train ? He has watched him sink down in his coffin, He waits to be with him again, — He watches till all have departed, And then, with a friendship sore tried, He scratched the mould from his coffin. And draws his last breath by his side. A TALE OF SAINT IVES. From the town of Saint Ives, there's a curious tale. Of a little old woman who'd butter for sale, Her name, well no matter, you doubtless have met it, I: was Polly Pol something, alas! I forget it; She came from a neighbouring village hard bye, l^Jot more than a mile, as a pigeon could fly, There was nothing could stop her, she came wet or dr)-. For many long years in the market she'd stood. With her pretty mop- cap and her old- fashioned hood ; With an apron as white as the wind-drifted snow, Like a bit ot old china from Chelsea or Bow. •So artless her manner, so guilele.'s her face. Of craft or deception, you couldn't find a trace; But ala^ I if you put one deceit to the route, The rest, just like fledglings, are sure to fly out. This little old woman, who lived at Saint Ives, (Wliere a man was once blessed, or was cursed with seven wives,) Was respected by all. Who went to lier stall, Aid indeed, '7 wa-. agreed, That she was as free, As a woman could be. From the tricks, Tto^e wlio niix Witl) market lolks see. So honest, in fact, was tliis old woman deemed," That no one suspected, and nobody dreamed, Not the m rket inspector, ^ Nor the stallkeeper next her, ! That the old butter woman was less than slie seemed; Till one day, alas! beyond doubting Dr doubt, This little old woman got fairly bow led out. Now you tliat are guil;y and daily dissemble, Just listen to mt-, and, while listening, tremble. Or just when you fancy disiiones;y thrives. You may fin.i you are floored, like the dame of Saint Ives. 'Twas a warm summer's day, and the market was thronged, (Such a day as I've oftentimes v^^ished for or longed,) When a whisper went round " You had better look out, The inspector and all the Court Leet are about." Now this little old woman, as artful as sin. Was qiiick to perceive the sad mess she was in ; She knew all the butter she'd left on her stall, Four pounds in long rolls, if you counted it all, Was short in its weight, and she trembled to meet, The jurj'men choeen to form the Court Leet Quick as thought, she cried out, " I can cheat the poor ninnies, I've four pounds of butter, and four golden gui- neas, In each pound I'll place one, that will bring down the scale, I have oft played the trick, and ne'er knew it to fail." Then placing a guinea in each of the rolls. With butter she cunningly filled up the holes. Then feelii g quite proud, She called out aioud, In a voice that couldn't fail to attract a large crowd, " Come on, my brave men, and kind customers all, You shall see the good weight that you get at my stall." In a minute, each pound was weighed in succes- sion. And of each, the inspector, in turn, tooii posses- sion. And amazed and dumb-foundered the old woman stood, In her pretty mop-cap and her old-fashioned hood. And the crowd that cou'd scarcely believe its own eyes. Stood staring, mouth open, quite struck with sur- prise. And void of all pity, The witty, By chaffing. Set all the folks laughing. And those who were present, confessed all their lives, They never had seen such a bcene in Saint Ives. KIMBURTON. 37 THE SHOWMAN'S STORY. We've seen lietter ilays, take my word on't. But that was afore you were born ; Then I was a living in clover. And that "ere old horse upon corn ; He was owned by a noteil star-rider. Till he broke in his gallops, they say. And Billy, the pride of the circus. Come down all a cropper one day. It may be the chaps hadn't fed him. Or he may have turned rusty a bit, Or may be his back had got tender. Or may be the saddle didn't tit ; I'm sartin, d'ye see, it was summat. But wliat ? why, in cour>-e, I can't tell, 1 knows he was put in the market Soon alter Bill Hawkins got well. What miles we have travelled togetrer, 'I'hem tlggers, that old horse, and me ; When the sun was a reg'lar scorcher, And the snow covered all you could see; We cared not for sunshine or shadder, A touch of the whip, and he flew, And, wliatever broke down on the journey. My I'ommy was bound to pull through. I was dropped on the high road to Leicester, That means I was born in a van, I was bred from a clown to a circus From a wench they called '• Carrotty Nan ; But they tired of me in a twelvemontii, And sold me or guv' me away. To a woman who travelled with wax-works, The best on the road in her day. I wa-i brought up witli them blessed figgers. And slej)t: witii em night after night. And, as 1 got bigger and bigger, I larn't how to work 'em all right, There wasn't a dodge 1 warn't up to. And folks said, for one of my size, Tiiey never caug'nt sight ot my equal. For patter, and telling of lies. At length, my old missus went ailing-. And, one day, she said to me, " Joe, There's a summat a-going to happen — I mean for to turn up the show; Take care of those innercent figgers, Don't injure a hair o' tiieir head; Look on 'em as brothers and sisters — Take care on 'em Joe, when I'm dead.'' I kept to the promise I made her, And guv' each a new suit of clothes ; But somehov.' they lost all tiieir 'traction—* Like water, it ebbs and it flows ; Yet' can't work the same lode for ever. And always expect it to pay;. Tim Bobbin and Muster George Barnwell, And Dancer have each had his day. Jack Thurtefl I've turned to a bishop, And 'ligah's tiie new king of Greece ; Tim Bobbin is Mu-.ter George Qdger, And Dancer I've changed into Peace; King (ieorge has been christened " t'ne Claimant,* And old Mother Brownrigg's a queen, The brigand is Mr, Disraeli, Tbat's h.im as is togged out in green. In course, well I knows it's deception, And feel it's a little bit wrong ; But in matters like these, there be custom. And custom be woundedly strong; I don't boast of being all vartue, For Satan pulls hard on the poor, I gives just a bit to the devil. And so does a good many more. Them figgers to me is a warning. Lor' bless yer, I studies 'em well ; Tim Bobbin was all worldly wisdom His works is a reg'lar sell ; George Barnwell wa- tempted, like Adam, Jack Thurtell was brother to Cain ; The weeds that die under the harrow. Drop seed, and so spring up again. Old Dancer was said to die childless, And some thought the race had died out; But there's plenty of Dancers still living, I've seen 'em a knocking about; And brigands, lor' bless yer, they re swarming^ They turns up wherever yer go ; The world isn't very much altered — It takes arter Saunders's show. " We're a sort of a fam'ly party," I says, as we travel along I talks to 'em all just like children, And chaffs 'em and sing 'em a song! I knows some was guilty o' murder. And crime is writ strong on the brow; But they sutfered, and that means forgiveness. And all of 'ems wery good now. I confess there's a sort of affection, Sprung up 'tween them figgers and me, And it seems to grow stronger and stionger — Our int'rests don't disagree! They can't help their failure, I knows it, It comes from their being too okl. In youth we can all stand the winter. In age we all suffer from cold. The fairs, they be all gettin wusser, I fancy they're dying av\Tiy — The tough hill that stands right afore us Grows steeper and steeper each day ; 3« KIMBURTON. As for me, I coa'd die in a worksis— For it be'ant for myself that I care, But tiggers ain"t got any parish, And horses ar'n't taken in there. When I looks at the kids in the gutter, And sees 'em all kivered with dirt, ^Vith no one to clothe and to feed 'em, And no one to shield 'em from hurt; I thinks of them 'ere blooming figgers, Stuck up in this 'ere caravan. And I thinks of the clown to the circus, And. excuse me, o' Carrotty Nan. When the showman had finished his stocgti He rose up and bid me good-bye- And then he came all over groggy, And a big tear rolled out ol his eye. And his last words were, " Look to them fig gers, "* And don't stand 'em out in the sun. Wax figgers be queer things to deal in, They goes, if they once start to run." KNOCKER GLBBINS. If beauty be cause of temptation, Then Knocker from danger was free. He was knosvn to be very straiglitfor'ard, Though crooked as crooked could be ! Each eye was the size of a sarser, His mouth like a hole in the wall. And his legs were a capital model Foi- trestles to prop up a stall. It be strange iiow a woman could fancy A man who was ugly as sin, Who seemed to be cut out by Natur For causing a laugh and a grin ; But Love never stands upon trifles. He sees what no mortal can see. And holds on as fast as the badger That once got a good grip o' me ! When Knocker was married to Mary, Kimburton was just like a fair, And crowding right up to the altar, All Tag Rag and Bobtail were thero j And then, when the service was over, There was chaffing and shouting galore, And tracking them home to their cottage, We gave them another cheer more. On the very next day, a young couple Got married at Kimburton church, The handsomest pair in the village. Bob Tarver aud Caroline Birch ; And folks said they knew they'd be happy, And envied the blessings in store! £ijt when they'd been married a twelvemonth, They loved one another no more. i dor.'t know the fate of Bob Tarver, Who married tlie very next day, But I've heard tliattho Pride of the Village, Got beaten and bolted away ; And 1 know what a little liird whispered That Bob got as drunk as a lord. Then broke up his home in Kimburton, And died broken-hearted abroad. But what about Knocker and Mary, The oddest of matches e'er seen, They stuck to their own little cottage, That stood by the side of the green ; They lose up each morn with thj daylight. And tickled their small patch of land. Till the chasm that kept them from plenty. By industry's bridije had been spanned. Their potatoes were always the finest, Their carrots the largest and best ; Their liowers the iariest that blossomed, In either the East or the West ; And as sure as a Flower Shov^r opened, For beauty, perfection and size, The ugliest man in the village Was sartin to bear off the prize. His smoch was as white as a lily. His floor was as clean as a pin, For Alary had learned from her mother That dirt was a deadly sin ; And she kept it clean out of her dwelling. Not a spot nor a speck could you trace. And she said it was turned into gold dust By popping it in the right place. The flowers that trailed round the winder. And clung to the bit of a porch, Were planted a week or two arter They marched out of Kimburton church ; And they watched them at night and at morning And said if they sickened and died, The love which they felt for each other. Would wither away in its pride. They spread o'er the wall and tlie lattice. And burst into blossom and bloom, And kept the fierce glare of the sunlight Away from their snug little room ; They flourished and thrive*! without ceasing. And jusf as poor Mary foretold, They laughed at the dangers of winter Through leaflets and blossoms of gold. It be twenty years since they were married, And folks said that love was stone blind. But I tell 'ee that old Knock'.-r Gibbins, Has whistled all care to the wind, That sorrow has not left a wrinkle, ^ Nor trouble a sign nor a trace ; While the ro-es are redder and brighter That blossom on poor Mary'n face. KIMBURTON. 39 BEN DREW'S OUTLOOK. ft may be it looks very pretty, With the wild lieather blooming around, But it arn't in the spot nor the cottage, That happiness always be found, [t arn't in the depths of the pocket, Nor yet in the money that's spent, [t walks itself off when yer grumble, And only comes back with Content. The fact be I'se been disappointed. My life's been a bad 'un at best. Before I had got all my feathers. The old ones deserted the nest, 'An' I'd jest what the world calls to rough it. That means I'd to grin and to bear, 'And whenever misfortunes are scrambled, I always get more than my share. 3 ! yes, I'd a wife in my young days, A hangel as neighbours would say, But the luck that I had didn't suit her. And caused her to liy right away. ' No children?" Yes, one, but he's left me, " The reason 1" Ah ! that I can't tell, But they said he was sick o' the cottage. An' left in some mansion to dwell. iriie sights, all around, may be han'sum. But what be the: beauty to me ? There be eyes that can see nothin' ugly. No matter whatever they see. 'An' others that never see nothin' But, seein' they (juickly condemn, iA.n' somehow I cannot but fancy. That mine be a darned pair o' them. The fact be, though eyes be a summat. They always give way to the mind, [t tells 'em to look out for beauty, An' that they be sartin to find ; [t tells 'eui to speer out what's ugly. An' they sees it as plain as can be, 'An' the pair I liave got be of that sort. An' in course they're obeyin' o' me. [ don't blame the two I have gotten. The pair be all right in their way, [ don't blame the cottage nor country. They're pretty enough I dare say ; But there's sunmiat to blame it be sartin. All things be gone mortally wrong. The weak'uns that tumble in battle. Get trampled upon by the strong. Jest look through the peepers I see wi' Look out on that scene over there. You'll see a big cloud hang afore it, An' shadders enow an' to spare. Do yer twig it, all blurred — topsy-turvy, Is that what you painters call grand ? Well, how yer mak'e pictures of such like, I never could yet understand. Now, look at the valley down yonder, Beaut that too a spot you would shun ? Do yer see any brightness about it — A glimmer of light from the sun ? Is tl'.at what yer call a good landskip. To copy and hang in a room ? It be wus to look at nor a cofHn, And brimful of nothin' but gloom. Yer can't see the want of the sunshine, Them clouds so confovmdedly black, AVell that's what I calls a bit curus, Jest hand me them two peepers back, I'm blessed if that isn't a corker. We look with the same pair of eyes, An' when we tell what we've been seein'. There's one on us caught telling lies. " I didn't lend the crushed heart and spirit," There's summat in that arter all, "You didn't have the what-do-you-call it ? That turns all it touches to gall." Well, danged if you arn't bin and hit it, Y^ou never can see as I see. The shadders that darken them picturs. Till trod on and soured like me. THE TWO BROTHERS. One brother had a bit of land. An acre at the most. But not a grain that land would grow Was ever, ever, lost ; The other had a large estate, A mile across, or more. But it was over-run by weeds. And very, very pour. The first was dressed in corduroy, Had large and horny hands ; The second had a broadcloth suit. And issued his commands. Wliate'er the first conceived, was done, \Miate'er the second bade. By counter orders, vaguely given. Was sure to be delayed. 40 KIMBURTON. God's glorious sunshine warmed the loam. His rain fell all around, And in the golden summer time, ^o barren spot was found ; But here grew com ; there useless weeds, The larger brought the less ; The small plot, like a garden, trim. The large, a wilderness. The sun and rain in fairness fell. And gave no cause for strife. And all the seed that reached the ground, Was quickened into life ; And, printed on the land, was seen, These words, and these alone, One brother's wasted God's great gifts, And one his duty done. Year after year, that waste ran on. No one stepped in and said, The land accursed by wanton waste Should bless tbe'poor with bread. Year after year, the brother's bit Became more fruitful still, Xo matter what he sowed, it would , A larger measui-e till. The laws of man are strange indeed — Priority of birth Had made the elder, idler son. The owner of much earth ; "While he with willing head and hand, Aye, ready at earth's call, Beside the plot he rented, had No land to till at all. The simplest mind will surely own The folly of the plan. That gave a thousand acres To the sluggish ' • gentleman ; " That statesmen have no right to boast And brag about their deeds, So long as land God gave for food Is overrun with weeds. My story is a simple one ; 'Tis finished. Working men. You've, doubtless, very often heard About a famous hen, Whose eggs were lumps of solid gold. And how, one hapless day, Its owner slew the precioiis bird That fortunes used to lay. The fable is a musty one ; But who can doubt its worth ? Suppose we just write "corn" for "eggs'' And change the " hen " for " earth?" Have we not killed a fowl that laid The golden eggs of corn ? By giving to the slothful man. And not the nobler born ! SAM'S DONKEY. Sam's donkey was always a-moultin'. And wouldn't ha' fetched much at a fair ; It be said the old man pulled its wool out. To make a soft seat to his chair : There were all sorts of stories about it, But, the truth is, there's nobody knows, It might hav' took snuff and gone sneez- in'. Or gluttony busted its clothes. Then its tail warn't a good-lookin' f eetur'. It seemed a bit screwed at the root ; And the villagers laughed at the nidder Fixed on to the starn of the brute ; He'd a head just the shape of a fiddle. With music more sweet in its tone ; And folks said whenever they heerd it, 'Twould captur' the heart of a stone. But the marvellous mind of that donkey. Be summat worth talkin' about ; If you put a big carrot afore him, 'Twas a caution to see him step out ; If you whipped him, he'd lash out like thunder, And the more he was beaten or licked, The firmer his front legs were planted. And the fiercer and harder he kicked. If you guv'd him a medder to graze in, A smile would come over his face, That seemed to say, " I've no objection To take a long lease of the place !" But he wouldn't stay a moment to arguy. The mind of that sensible ass Was riveted on to the notion Of getting his tub full of grass. Talk o' wisdom, you wise folk arn't in it. That donkey, although he can't speak, KIMBURTON. 41 Will let you know more in a minnit Than you'd learn out of words in a week ; .If you tickle him under the crupper, And stand in a line Avith his heels, You will iind out how hard he's been thinking, And dream of it over your meals! If a clover field gate was left open, He'd walk in and take a peep round, And if there warn't any one lookin', He'd nibble a bit from the ground ; But if either the squiis or farmer, ♦ By chance should be walk in' about ; He'd show him his starn in a hinstant, And, straight as an arrow walk out. If you made him a halter o' haybanda, No matter how thick it might be, That donkey, in less nor a minnit. Was sartin to set himself free ; Well, that I've a fancy, for cunnin', You'll reckon, with me, pretty good. For what mortal was known to eat hand- cuffs, Or swaller his shackles for food ? Now, I don't know what you think o' don- keys, But I puts 'em up purty high ; I never caught sight of a dead 'un, I b'leeves 'em too artful to die ; I have studied 'em over and over, And all I have gotten to say Be I fancy the've got lots o' knowledge, But don't care to make a display ! WHY 1 REMAIN SINGLE. No, I am't put my neck in a halter, I beant sich a fool, d'ye see; I couldn't keep a wife, if I had one. And I don't want a wife to keep me. 1 cixn.'t stand a lot o' palaver ''That arn't worth the price of a song; If you moasuro my corn by your bushel, You see, sir, you're bound to go wrong. [t bo all wery well for a gemman To bamoes bisself to a wife ; Hut you see, sir, tbe cases beaut equal, His tommy is buttered for life. Thoro arn't no big shadders afore him, No troubles strewu over his way ; My path bo clean bidden by darkness, Wliilo his be as bright as tbe day. f would look for a sweetheart to-morrer, If summer ruled all tbe year round ; iVhat I fear, be tbe dead of the winter, Wbon there isn't no worli to bo found ; rben I fancy a wife don't moan comfort, Except you've a heart made of stone, for I hold that a cup full of sorrow 's Less bitter if swallowed alone. I've a fancy for gettin' up picturs, " An artist ! " Oh I no, sir ; I beant ; [ draws "em without any brushes, Without any canvas or paint ; [ picturs a homo of my makin'. In course, it be fancy, yer see, ^Vith a wifi lookin' mortally pleasant, And a purty child perched on her knee. 3h ! yes, sir ; iudcod, I be in it, I'm smokin' a pipe in my chair, \.nd the suu, comin' in through the winder^ Has brightened up everything there ; 3ut the wust on it bo, I can't fix it, It arn't to bo done, I dessay : '"'or jest as the sunshine comes on it. The bright colours fade right away. There's a sadness comes over them faces. The rose on each cheek turns quite pale, \nd the bright, cheery face, that's my owiu sir, Looks wickeder far than the jail, look haunted, as though I'd done murder, By brin