^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 I<j75, and was not finished till 1710, no less a time than 
 thirty-five years being occupied in its completion. At the pre- 
 sent time there are at least a score of builders who would un- 
 dertake to complete a similar Ijuilding in five years, or even 
 less, with one half the hands formerly employed upon St. 
 Paul's. The raoid constru-^tion of the Theatre in Bow Street, 
 and similar structures, aff')nlam!)le proofs of the correctness 
 of our statement. The ofF.>r 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, an<l fish, or 'twas von'son. 
 
 Or else it was rabbit or haro ; 
 But whether ho bought 'em, or stole 'em, 
 
 We never discovered down there.
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 35 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF MISTLETOE FARM. 
 
 It UM-. down ill our villa;;c, Kimburton, 
 
 Wliert: nature l)e stcn in tiie rough, 
 Antl woniei be almost \i-.c iiil-ii folk, 
 
 VVitii arms that l)e brawny and tougli ; 
 Wlieie the boys that be tound on its common, 
 
 lie ai wild as the colts by tlicir side — 
 Tlat want to be tliorouglily l)roken 
 
 lieforc the/ be litten to ride- 
 It was down there, wlien I was a younker. 
 
 And tiouble could work me no harm, 
 That I first learned the tale of hill Colton, 
 
 A shepherd on Mistletoe Farm ; 
 And I'll tell it, if you will but isten, 
 
 As plain and as piump as I can, 
 And show that the stuff ot a hero 
 
 May re>t 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<rin' them two pictured there ; 
 'or the wife, as 1 said, looked so purty, - 
 Go cr'ishod with a load of dosi)air. 
 
 Well, you see, sir, that's why I keep single, 
 
 It beant cos I like to be so. 
 And it beant cos I can't get a partner 
 
 To wed me for weal or for woe ; 
 It be only because I've no futur,' 
 
 No promise of comfort in store; 
 If you only put them in my reach, sir 
 
 I'll marry, though ever so poor.
 
 42 
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 KIMBURTON FAIR. 
 
 When J was a lad at Kimburton, 
 
 With other hrigtu younUers down there, 
 We all used to stand upon tiptoe. 
 
 To welcome old Middlemas Fair ; 
 And then with what rapture we saw it, 
 
 A-climbing up Kimburton hill, 
 Or turning around by the churchyard, 
 
 To reach the big field by the mill. 
 
 There was six cravans painted yellow, 
 
 Or may- he there'd chanced to be more, 
 With two or three tawny-fared children 
 
 A-peeping from every door ; 
 There were gipsies and strollers by dozens, 
 
 A peep-show, a huge polar bear. 
 And all the rougli tatterdemalions 
 
 That make up the fun of a fair, 
 
 For miles round the folks came in-pouring. 
 
 Dressed up in their best Sunday clothes; 
 Some trudged it through long winding roadways, 
 
 And some cut the corners like crows ; 
 There were sergeants with gay streamers flying, 
 
 As smart as a pin, and as clean, 
 Who wanted recruits for the Indies. 
 
 And others to fight for the Queen. 
 
 As soon as the daylight was dawning, 
 
 Old Martin divided the L;round 
 For the shows and the swings ,-.nd the circiu^ 
 
 And also the merry-go-round ; 
 And then, like a lot of bees swarming, 
 
 The showmen rushed out of each van. 
 And up rose the sticks and the canvas, 
 
 And bawling and shouting began. 
 
 And then came those wonderful pictures. 
 
 Of battle-scenes, giants, and crime, 
 O'. silver-haired, pink-eyed Albinos, 
 
 And snakes from a far-distant clime. 
 But, alas! how deceptive the can^•as, 
 
 How dwarfed was each scene shown of war, 
 How flattered the mt.an-looking lady. 
 
 And quiet the snake in the jar ! 
 
 •* Walk up! see the royal Bengal tiger, 
 
 Who measures full tliirty feet long!" 
 f Walk up ! see the wizard ! the wizard !" 
 
 And crash go the dmm and the gong. 
 " Walk up, see the great water-otter," 
 
 'And tempted by wonder and fun. 
 Folks paid for a peep at a kettle. 
 
 And said they were cleverly done. 
 
 " This way," bawls a man through a funnel, 
 
 ' This way for the riders, this way !" 
 And then, just to add to confusion, 
 
 A brass band commences to play ; 
 WHien out tripped a wrinkled-faced lady. 
 
 Dressed out like a young girl from schcol. 
 Who turned herself round like a pin wheel. 
 
 And naughtily winked at the fool. 
 
 What rare funny stories he told us. 
 
 What laughter he caused to the crowd, 
 What plaudits, what clapping, what cheering 
 
 Whenever he postured or bowed. 
 There was never a man half so witty 
 
 And never a queen half so fair. 
 As the clown and that spraw-footed lady 
 
 Who charmed us at Middlemas Fair. 
 
 At the George there were fiddling and dancing. 
 
 At the Dragon a table well spread. 
 At the Blue Boar two bullies got fighting, 
 
 Till one was left stretehed out for dead ; 
 At the Crow there were dozens at skittles. 
 
 At the Crown there was drinking galore. 
 While women and men at the Peacock 
 
 Were lying dead drunk on the floor. 
 
 I remember one year I'd got ninepence, 
 
 A fortune, at least so I thought. 
 But soon It sank down into sixpence, 
 
 And then by degrees into naught. 
 And this is the way I was tempted 
 
 To squander this very large sum — 
 I bought me a gilt cock-and- breeches. 
 
 And fourpence went bang in a drum. 
 
 Then I threw at a sixpence and missed it, 
 
 And then I went into a show — 
 How quickly all money nms from us. 
 
 And to us how tauntingly slow! 
 But what is the use of my jjieuching, 
 
 I saved it on purpose to spend, 
 Tis misers alone make an idol 
 
 Of money that's stamped for a friend. 
 
 How well I remember that noontide, 
 
 I penniless roamed through the fair — • 
 And coveted this thing and that thiiig. 
 
 And looked at my drum in despair; 
 Turned my pockets a dozen times over, 
 
 Tnen searched them again and agaib— 
 In the hope tbst, in some hidden cop-*!^ 
 
 Th* m^s^Uaei o! Mnns might remairt.
 
 o
 
 KIMBTIRTON. 
 
 4^ 
 
 How at length I got sick of repining, 
 
 And plucked up my courage once more, 
 .A'- t^vigged ot delights that were open 
 
 Alike f^ the rich and the poor. 
 ,How I drank in the clown's witty sayings, 
 
 And roared at his dexterous tricks, 
 Then peeped through a slit in the canvas, 
 
 And saw the performance for " nix." 
 
 1 remembt^r, too, how a poor yokel, 
 
 Unmindful of what betel me. 
 Got lifting up different thimbles. 
 
 But failed to discover the pea. 
 And then how that wonderful wizard. 
 
 Ate tow ail a-flame like a coal. 
 And swallowed a bushel ot shavings 
 
 I'hat— presto ! changed into a pole. 
 
 I have thought o'er that fair at Kimburton, 
 
 And treasure its memories now, 
 (For it fills up the crowfeet and wrinkles 
 
 That passing years left on my 'orow. 
 2t causes the pulse to beat faster. 
 
 It drives tho life stream through each vein, 
 And cheats my old age with the fancy 
 
 That youth is returning again. 
 
 They may tell me that death is approaching. 
 
 And bid me to give up the past. 
 .And threaten my soul that perdition 
 
 Is certain to claim it at last ; 
 But wiiy, do 1 ask, it so sinful, 
 
 Does memory cling to them still, 
 Those dear, treasured scenes of my chiidhood- 
 
 The fair in the field by the mill ? 
 
 II have faith, in despite of such preaching, 
 
 That mankind was born to be free, 
 That heav'n would not steal the last comfort, 
 
 That comes like an angel to me. 
 And I will not be taught the sad story. 
 
 That good thoughts are nurtured from care, 
 'While nothing to tit man tor living 
 
 Can spring from the scenes of a fair. 
 
 COUNTRY COURTSHIP. 
 
 When I war a-courting of Hannah, 
 
 Who lived down at Broadwater Farm, 
 il used to walk off on a Sunday, 
 
 Wi' I-iannah tucked under my arm • 
 ■I guv'd her a good bus at startin'. 
 
 And one at the close of fun mile 
 Ar.other one down in the hollow, 
 
 And two at the four-acre stile. 
 
 :Egad 1 how her eyes used to twinkle, 
 
 > And the blushes spread over her cheek, 
 -She never got tired of kissing, 
 
 I might have kept on for a week j 
 
 She liked it, and said it war music, 
 And if ever it comed on to rain, 
 
 We used to creep under the bushes. 
 And play the tune over again. 
 
 I told her such fine pratty stories, 
 
 And said she was sweeter to me 
 Than Old Mother Littleton's hardbake, 
 
 Or mulberries shook from a tree ; 
 I told her no lass in the village, 
 
 Could boast of a prattler name, 
 And to prove it, I spelt Hannah backwards. 
 
 And I'm danged if it wa n't the same. 
 
 If any one spoke unto Hannah, 
 
 Or Hannah e'er made a bit free, 
 I felt just as though a bigsarpint 
 
 Had started to crawl over me. 
 And when I seed Jimmy the cowboy 
 
 A-talking to her down the lane, 
 I'm danged if there wasn't a spider 
 
 A-spinning his web in my brain. 
 
 If I went to a Christmas party, 
 
 And seed a big mistletoe bough, 
 I felt it war put there a-purpose 
 
 To kick up a bother or row ; 
 I told her the game they were playing 
 
 And warned her ot being too free, 
 But women like playing at kissing, 
 
 And Hannah soon bamboughzled me. 
 
 When I seed her a stirring a puddun, 
 
 Or making a gooseberry pie, 
 I used to steal into the kitchen, 
 
 And give her a buss on the sly; 
 And I, quick as thosght, got another. 
 
 That rose up like sap tlirough a tree. 
 And it flew to my boots and my fingers. 
 
 And it guve quite a new life to me. 
 
 My life was a hogshead of sugar, 
 
 A barrel of gooseberry wine ; 
 In the gloomiest hour in winter, 
 
 I'm danged if the sun wouldn't shine, 
 And when I lay down cin my piller 
 
 And smothered myself in the clothes, 
 I war sure to get dreaming of Hannah, 
 
 As soon as I got in a doze. 
 
 One day Hannah comed to me crj'ing, 
 
 An' said she was going away. 
 That Missus's darter in Lunnon, 
 
 Had p>-omised to double her pay ; 
 Every word that she uttered was bayonets 
 
 Tiiat pierced me right through to the core, 
 I seed her jump into the carriage. 
 
 And never seed Hannah no more.
 
 ■i\ 
 
 T-TMBURTON. 
 
 FOSTER BROTHERS. 
 
 '• Who'll have a ride on a donkey? 
 
 Will you, sir ? a pt-nny ? just so; 
 Widiout any whipping or spurring, 
 
 You'll find liim a stunner to go. 
 Trot up to tlie trees and come !)ack, sir, 
 
 There isn"t no vice about Ned ; 
 Won't move ? there you've wrong, for a wage:, 
 
 .lust try him, and give him his liead. 
 
 That donkey, I ijred him myself, sir ; 
 
 Well ! in course that be only a joke. 
 My bo)' often lays down beside him — 
 
 He's more like a ciiild than a moke. 
 He don't want the stick, not a morsel, 
 
 He's srot as much sense as a kid. 
 Don't like it? well, there, sir, you've hit it, 
 
 He'd be a blarmed fool if he did. 
 
 He was born on this bit of a common, 
 
 That be rising of two years ago, 
 I found him down there in the hollow, 
 
 In a snug little cradle of snow. 
 That 'ere be his mother, that old 'un, 
 
 And that be his sister up there ; 
 His father — his father was wicious 
 
 And 1 swapped him at Middlemas Fair. 
 
 His age r well, I told yer, a young 'un. 
 
 He isn't full grown as you see. 
 He hasn't a flaw as I knows on, 
 
 Just look at his hock and his knee. 
 Just look at his hack and his withers, 
 
 And glance at his neck and his head. 
 And show me a moke that can equal 
 
 Them points in my favourite, Ned. 
 
 WHien the races were on in the meadows, 
 
 And seven on 'em started to run, 
 I "-aid as their fancies warn't in it, 
 
 Ned started at fifteen to one. 
 I barked him to win me a pony. 
 
 That's money in course as you knows ; 
 He kept close behind to the distance. 
 
 And chopped 'em all down at the close. 
 
 Well, he doesn't run well in a barrow, 
 
 He hasn't been taught d'you see, 
 He*« apt to kick over the traces — 
 
 No thank yer, he doesn't kick me. 
 He might, when a little iiit older, 
 
 But in course, about that 1 can't say. 
 Some old 'uns be werry cross-tempered. 
 
 And some on 'em all t'other way. 
 
 When Bet?y, yes, that's my old woman, 
 
 Was suckling of my little Bill. 
 She tumbled right down with the fever, 
 
 Up there, in the cot on the hill. 
 Then Neddy was only a youngster, 
 
 He couldn't 'ave been more than that high ; 
 
 His mother's tet-. Used to run over, 
 
 Wiiile Betsy's, «ell. hern were quite dry. 
 
 Our boy was a reg'lar bouncer, 
 
 All mottled and fat as could be ; 
 Its dear little face was a pictur, — 
 
 He took a good deal arter me I 
 But the kid it went wrong on a sudden, 
 
 And fretted from morning till night; 
 The food that we give it didn't answer. 
 
 And physic didn't make it all right. 
 
 Well. I puts him to that donkey's mother, 
 
 Tliat old 'un as stands over there ; 
 And she was a true friend to Billy, 
 
 Anti used for to suckle the pair ; 
 I've se^r, 'em lay down altogether. 
 
 She, fearing to hurt him, wouldn't stir; 
 She used to lick Billy all over, 
 
 And now master Billy licks her. 
 
 My boy, well in course, you've not seen him. 
 
 You've heerd of him though, I daresay. 
 He ain't fond ot work, that be sartin. 
 
 But he bangs all the village at play ; 
 He's as rough as his old foster mother, 
 
 And he won't run in harness, 1 fear. 
 But he's got many good p'ints about him. 
 
 And some that's a little bit c^ueer. 
 
 There's a sort of a likeness atween 'em, 
 
 They both like to have their own will ; 
 My boy. he's half brother to Neddy, 
 
 And Neddy's half brother to Bill. 
 Don't kick, well I shouldn't like to try him, 
 
 He's iiuiet enough let alone ; 
 But if you get whipping or spurring, 
 
 The mixtur turns up in the bone. 
 
 — o — 
 THE OLD AND NEW PARSON. 
 
 \Yher. iln' old Parson died at Kimburton, 
 
 Thovo was mourning the whole village througl 
 And, soDiehow. I cannot help thinking, 
 
 Thac fow will fret after tho new. 
 The old "un was filled with oompassiou, 
 
 Good iialiire in iiin: overflowed, 
 He knew all the people with burdens. 
 
 And strove hard to lighten their load. 
 
 The old 'un was just like the fishers 
 
 Who .ook .Jesus Christ out to sea, 
 A warih-heartcd man and a true 'un 
 
 As ( vor a mortal could be; 
 He dressed like a two-acred farmer. 
 
 And douce of a bit could you traco 
 A bit oi the parson about 'un, 
 ■' - Except when you looked in his face.
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 45 
 
 He'd a garden that reached to the river, 
 
 An orchard of fine bearing treee, 
 Wliose red and white blossoms in siiringtime 
 
 Were kissed by the sun and the breeze; 
 Whoso fruitage in mellowing autumn 
 
 Was garnered as though it were gold, 
 To" comfort the poor and the needy 
 
 Whom fortune had left in the cold. 
 
 He'd a fine copper pan for preserving, 
 
 A housewife of marvellous skill, 
 A medicine chest, and a cupboard 
 
 With brandy for those who were ill : 
 A cask of the finest " October," 
 
 A pipe for a neighbour to smoke — 
 And the worst thing his foes knew about 'un 
 
 Was his love for a glass and a joke. 
 
 Then, his books were at most but a handful, 
 
 Worth nothing at auction or mart — 
 A Bible, a Cruden't Concordance, 
 
 And others that spoke to the heart; 
 A prayer book and Bunjan's grani story — 
 
 That pictures our passions as mon, 
 And turns all our sins inio dragons — 
 
 But warns you away from their den. 
 
 But listen, there's one I arn't mentioned 
 
 About an old wicker like he 
 Who lived in a place down in Yorkshire, 
 
 A book as the old 'un lent me. 
 It be written by All-over Goldsmith, 
 
 A chap wlio spent money like rain, 
 And if folks only knew what was in it. 
 
 They'd read it again and again. 
 
 The old cliap was mightily fond on't, 
 
 He faid it was better than tracts. 
 That all of its stories were true 'una 
 
 And built upon nat'ral facts , 
 And it used to go all round our village, 
 
 And did folks a nation of good. 
 Because it was written in language 
 
 That every fool understood. 
 
 When the old 'un walked into his pulpit. 
 
 And bowed for a moment in prayer, 
 Every soul in the temple grew thirs'y. 
 
 The true ChriHtian spirit was there: 
 When ho prayed, the strong fervour within bim 
 
 (iave strength to each quivering tone, 
 Though the words he oft spoke were bo simple, 
 
 A ciiild might have deemed them its own. 
 
 When the new 'un comes out of the vestry, 
 
 Hij step is impo.-ingly grand, 
 And his eyes seem to saj' to those present — 
 
 Does any dispute my command ? 
 It is I am your L )rd and Master. 
 
 So humble yourselves before me ! 
 And so tall und so mighty's his stature. 
 
 No sign of the Cross can we see. 
 
 There's no doubt he be awfully clever, 
 
 And crammed full of Latin and Greek, 
 For scholars do nothing but praise 'ua 
 
 Whenever he chooses to speak; 
 Tho scholars be few in Kimburton, 
 
 I wish to my heart they wore more. 
 But it wants something else besides learing. 
 
 To grapple the hearts of the poor? 
 
 He may be a passable Christian, 
 
 And worthy of no end of praise, 
 But, lie cannot be called a true shepherd 
 
 Who don't know the poor and their ways. 
 Who gives all his spare time to learning 
 
 The secrets of nations long dead, 
 And cares not for those who are shedding 
 
 Sad tears round a suflerer's bed. 
 
 We have learnt that Christ's chosen disciples 
 
 Were men who long suffered and bore, 
 Stood firm in the front ranks of danger 
 
 Wtien Tyranny threatened the poor ; 
 We have learnt, too, tho danger of riches, 
 
 The weakness of folly and pride, 
 And yearn for a j)riest like our Saviour, 
 
 Who stood by the poor till he died. '
 
 JG 
 
 KTTVTBTTETON. 
 
 TOM BROWN AND HIS SWEETHEARTS. 
 
 Whon Tommy Brown went for a soldier, 
 
 I thought all the girls would i;o mad, 
 But there wasn't a youth in the village 
 
 That wasn't in secret glad. 
 He was straight as a yard of pump-wator, 
 
 And first in a song or a dance, 
 In truth, while he smiled on the women, 
 
 The rest of us hadn't a chance. 
 
 Like flies round a treacle-cask swarming, 
 
 They never ceased buzzing all day, 
 They'd leave off their vork to meet Tommy, 
 
 And nothing c ink] drive them away. 
 He was pretty nigh smothered in muslin. 
 
 And when for a soldier he'd gone. 
 They said as how Tommy had listed, 
 
 Because they wouldn't leave him alone. 
 
 He'd been gone from our village a twelve- 
 month. 
 
 Or, muy be, it might have been more, 
 When we learned that the Royal Connaught 
 Rangers 
 
 Had been drafted away to the war; 
 And Tommy, promoted to sergeant, 
 
 Had been in the thicli of the strife, 
 "Where, fightin? for England's glory. 
 
 He had died in the morning of life. 
 
 The letter pa=sed all round the village, 
 
 From the highest to lowest 'twas read, 
 'Twas conned o'er in highways and byeways, 
 
 In parlour, in kitchen and bed ; 
 It was talked of at church and at chapel, 
 
 And read at the '• Billet" and 'Queen," 
 And for week*, 'mong the maids of the 
 hamlet. 
 
 There -warn't a dry eye to be seen. 
 
 Of all the old sweethearts of Tommy, 
 
 There was one, only one, remained true, 
 The plainest of all, and the poorest, 
 
 The daughter of Timothy Drew; 
 Jane Trumper had married .lack Barber, 
 
 Luke Mason had married bet Eowe, 
 Bob Watson had taken Poll Simpson, 
 
 And Sally Watts captured Jim Crowe. 
 
 Tom Brown wasn't killed as folks fancied, 
 It was true he had fought and bad bled. 
 
 But ho rallied, got strength, and recovered. 
 But they mixed up his name with the 
 dead. 
 
 So the end of it was, he steered homewards. 
 Came bade to the village once more, 
 
 And found all his sweeth'.'arts had mai'ried, 
 Save she who was ugly and poor. 
 
 When he heard that Jane Trumper had 
 mated. 
 
 He heaved from his heart a deep sigh. 
 When they told him Bet Rowe was a mother, 
 
 A tear might be feon in each eye. 
 When they said that Poll Simpson warn't 
 single. 
 
 The deuce of a word could he speak ; 
 And on hearing the fate of his Sally, 
 
 The tears fairly rolled down his cheek. 
 
 The last one he thought of was Emily, 
 
 It is not a whit stranger than true. 
 She, only, remained ever faithful. 
 
 The daughter of Timothy Drew. 
 The light of her love never flickered, 
 
 But steadily burned to the last, 
 The straw floats away with the waters, 
 
 The pebble remains to the last. 
 
 They married for love, not for beauty. 
 
 They cared not for silver or gold. 
 He was true to the maiden that loved him. 
 
 She remembered her promise of old. 
 And the happiest pair in the village 
 
 You'll find, if you search it all through. 
 Is the soldier who blod for his country, 
 
 And poor little Emily Drew. 
 
 POOR TOM. 
 
 There was darned little grub in the cap- 
 board 
 
 When Tommy slipped into the house; 
 Folks sed as thera wasn't enough on't 
 
 For baitin' a trap for a mouse. 
 An' despite of that musty old proverb 
 
 "Bout someone a-feedin' the poor, 
 There wasn't the sign of a hangel 
 
 riew in at Bet Incledon's door. 
 
 It was only when Bet had pegged out on't. 
 
 And Tommy was tugijin' in vain 
 To get a drop out of the fountain 
 
 That never would start on again. 
 That someone comed out of the work'us. 
 
 And parted the quick from the dead. 
 And Tommy went up to that "desert," 
 
 And there by those wultures was fed.
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 4: 
 
 Well, somehow, that kid wriggled through 
 it, 
 
 And, fed upon skilly, ho growed. 
 To find that the world bo a harror. 
 
 And ho had l)in cast for tlie load. 
 To tliid that life isn't worth holding, 
 
 If robbed of all comfort and rest, 
 And you're forced to hang out in the work'us 
 
 For want of a properer nest. 
 
 Tom savored between health and sick- 
 ness, 
 
 And got on by fits and by starts; 
 He did bits of jobs for the nusses, 
 
 And poor folk who lived in them pirts. 
 And when he turned out of the work'us, 
 
 He strove very hard to got on, 
 But, somehow, ho foil on thorn places 
 
 From which every nugget had gone. 
 
 He did very well for a scarecrow, 
 
 Ho seemed just cut out for the job; 
 The birds were quite skoered when they seed 
 him, 
 
 And never attempted to rob. 
 They twigged blaster Tom, and they hooked 
 it, 
 
 Not one on 'jm wentered to stay ; 
 He was better than four score of rattles 
 
 To frighten them darned crows away. 
 
 But bird-starving isn't a fortin. 
 
 And, in time, he got laid on the shelf, 
 And, having no work at bird-starving, 
 
 He soon took to starving himself. 
 And that's how it was that his feature 
 
 Got handsomer every day, 
 For want, that was wasting him daily, 
 
 Filed half that was ugly away. 
 
 The stuff he was made of was worthless, 
 
 So cankered, it wasn't no good ; 
 It was worse than that barley turned yaller, 
 
 That stands by the sido of the wood ; 
 Ho suffered from all kind of evils, 
 
 From sorrow, from doubt, and from pain; 
 From rackings alHicting the body. 
 
 And troubles tormenting the brain. 
 
 Now, I don't want to go any lurder. 
 
 The rest you can pretty well guess ; 
 Ho never got richer nor fatter. 
 
 But, daily and hourly, less ; 
 And ho went to a shadderof nothing, 
 
 And no one could tell when he'd gone, 
 Tho purpose for which God had made 
 him. 
 
 The good that his life could have done. 
 
 His lighted rush, stuck in a lantern, 
 
 Had guttered and flickered a day ; 
 Then, sinking down low in tho socket. 
 
 Had pasHcd into darkness away. 
 A few score of crows had bin friglitenod, 
 
 A name added on to life's scroll, 
 A faltering start and a llutter, 
 
 And this was the sum of tho whole. 
 
 
 RESCUED FROM DANGER. 
 
 You see, sir, poor Jim was an infant 
 
 When Death snatched his father away. 
 And his mother, a true hearted woman, 
 
 Was forced to toil hard, day by day. 
 Well, of course, she couldn't pay for his mind- 
 ing. 
 
 It's not to be thought that she could ; 
 So, poor .Jemmy was left, like some thousands. 
 
 Belonging to Poverty's brood. 
 
 Sometimes he would stroll through the mea- 
 dows, 
 
 At other times wander abroad. 
 In the woodlauils, tho lanes, and the forest, 
 
 Or down by tae mill and the ford ; 
 Every day, the jjoor child would court danger. 
 
 Every day, she would tremble, in dread. 
 But, alas ! for the pains of thut mother, 
 
 Her care would have cost them their bread. 
 
 Well, he fell from the edge of yon cliff, sir, 
 
 Down into the chasm beneath; 
 And the few folk who saw it, felt sartin 
 
 That Jimmy was dashed into death; 
 And some turned away in their horror, 
 
 Felt sick, and were ready to drop. 
 But a man made of far tougher metal. 
 
 Cried " Shame ! every ono of you stop I " 
 
 Then he crept to the brink, and peered over, 
 
 And listened and listened again, 
 'Till his eyes got accustomed to darknes.s, 
 
 And his ears seemed to crack with the 
 strain ; 
 Then ho shouted, ''The boy is still living! 
 
 Run, and fetch mo a chain or a rope; 
 I can see him, and hear him a-ciying — 
 
 There's hope, there is hope, there is hope ! " 
 
 In a moment, the clatter of footsteps 
 
 Was heard on tho gravelly road, 
 And a youth, like a feather-plumed arrow, 
 
 Sped fast to a farmer's abode ;
 
 48 
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 To the old Warren House in the hollow, 
 That one, sir, that nestles down there, 
 
 And, returning, he flourished in triumph, 
 The coveted rope in the air. 
 
 Don't tell me all courage has vanished, 
 
 That all have proved slaves to their fears ; 
 When Tom Branscombo cried " Who'll help to 
 save him? " 
 
 There were plenty of stout volunteers. 
 And that youth who had flown to the Warren, 
 
 Was lashed to the end of the rope. 
 To sottl" the words that inspired them — 
 
 ''Tliere's hope, there is hope, there is 
 hope!" 
 
 "Hold on, and let loose, as I bid you; 
 
 Ho is safe, if you do as you're told," 
 Cried Tom, with a grip of the tether, 
 
 As over the brink theyoutli rolled ; 
 ■" Now, pay out the line a bit faster. 
 
 But, evenly, void of a jerk ; 
 There is hope, — there is hope, as I told you. 
 
 The angels are watching our work 1 
 
 He has got him! now, now, are you ready?" 
 
 "Aye, aye," the brave youngster replied, 
 And the pair of them dangled like spiders, 
 
 'Mid air, in that opening wide; 
 And, farther and farther from danger, 
 
 And nearer to safety, they aped, 
 'Till, at last, they were safely landed. 
 
 And lay on the turf overhead. 
 
 Then, a shout rent the skies, and the echoes 
 
 Were heard from the valleys afar ; 
 And the youth was proclaimed a true hero, 
 
 Unsullied by carnage or war; 
 And thoy lifted him high on their shoulders, 
 
 And bore him in triumph away, 
 And the coveted honours that crowned him 
 
 Are the pride of his manhood to-day. 
 
 — o — 
 
 COMMUN SENSE. 
 
 They say I'se a man with a soul ta save. 
 With Bummat ta hope for beyond the grave, 
 And so I suppose it be no ways a crime, 
 Ta send I ta glory afore my time. 
 
 On the rongs I suffer thay bid I bo dumb, 
 An' think o' th' joys ov tlia world ta come : 
 But banged iv I think that tha land ov bliss, 
 Be any more sweet for the rongs ov this. 
 
 Wen I look at our measter, without any care, 
 A-dreamin' away in a f oine easy chair ; 
 I ses tae meself this be suiumat like bliss. 
 But gatYer bo robbin' tha next world for this. 
 
 It bo all vera well ta preach sarmints ta I, 
 And bid I ta wait till I starve an' die ; 
 But wile they be chating on each mortal day 
 I knows it be humbug to toll I ta pray. 
 
 Whenever the feelin' of hunger be strong, 
 
 1 dwoan't want a pearson ta tell I it's rong; 
 
 For I feels and I knows it's a cause for com- 
 plaint 
 
 When they starves I ta death jest ta make I 
 a saint. 
 
 It be gifts and not wages that heaven holds 
 
 in store, 
 While the comforts of earth bu for rich an" for 
 
 poor. 
 So, in futur, I means to have more justice 
 
 here. 
 Or they'll find that they've got the rong pig 
 
 by the ear. 
 
 — — 
 THA MAN AND THA BAISTE. 
 
 I be rum sort ov chap, but I'se willing ta 
 
 toil, 
 For I knows thar be gold hid away in ta' soil ; 
 Still, whenever a big lump I happen to see. 
 Our gaffer ses, " Timothy, hand it ta me." 
 I'se detarmined in futur' ta play him a trick, 
 For I telleo of sich work I'm tarnation sick, 
 I means to have wittles to keep out the cold, 
 For I dwon t mean to starve while I'm picking 
 
 up gold. 
 
 Now, it stroil'.s me in futur', thar'd be little 
 
 harm, 
 If them swells and them ladies as visit the 
 
 farm, 
 Where ta jest take a peep at the pigstys 
 
 around. 
 Where we labourin' chaps and our wives may 
 
 be found. 
 Thoy will miss the chopped food, there be 
 
 no doubt ov that. 
 And we folk in the stys will be not over fat ; 
 But the wisit'U tell 'em that meastor's fat 
 
 swine 
 Have more wittles ta eat than them starved 
 
 kids ov mine.
 
 TCTMBTTT^TON. 
 
 4(» 
 
 When tha foino folk from Lunnun como 
 
 down for a sproe, 
 Or ta squint through thar glasses at joskins 
 
 loike me, 
 Thay be shown the new stoables and pigstys 
 
 complete. 
 And the food for the horses chewed ready to 
 
 eat. 
 They be taken to church where tha rich sin- 
 ners go, 
 Au' tha chubbiest children sing all ov a row, 
 An' I'm danged iv they dwon't toll tha friends 
 
 up in town, 
 That Timothy Wliackstraw be doing things 
 
 brown. 
 
 — o — 
 
 POPERLASHUN. 
 
 I 
 
 They tel I 'twer rong ta git married sa yung, 
 That I ort ta keep single till past proime 
 ov loifo; 
 But I hears tha burds twitter wen drivin' ma 
 plow, 
 An' foind nun sa happy as he wi' a woife. 
 Iv I turns up a mole, or a rat, or a mouse, 
 
 Or stummels across a wild rabbet or hare, 
 I finds ther's anuther not very far off. 
 An' I guesses at once they're a cock an' hen 
 jsair. 
 
 Tha burds bo a-courtin' fra mornin' ta night. 
 
 An' so. in a fashun, be each mortal beast, 
 An' as fer a woife, there be measter's old 
 cock, 
 
 I'm dang'd iv he hasn't a dozen at least. 
 Thar be them croakin' frogs as be colder nor 
 stone ; 
 
 But cold as thay be thay be awfully fond ; 
 Yer shud see 'em and hear 'em a singin'away 
 
 About poperlashun in our big pond. 
 
 Iv tha bull an' tha cow, an' the boar an' tha 
 sow, 
 Tha ram, an' tha ewe, an' tha cock an' tha 
 hen, 
 Were ta turn up thar noses at each ov thar 
 
 mates. 
 Thay'd Sft an exampal ta women an" men. 
 But things 'ud be brought ta a vera foine 
 
 pass, 
 An' mata 'ud be up ta a moighty big rate; 
 I'm 'olessed iv tha Christian as well as tha 
 Jew 
 Wudn't foind all tha pork had been swept 
 from his plate. 
 
 Now, sposen you chaps as bo drivin' tha 
 
 plow 
 Were to give marrigo up as a curse or dis- 
 grace, 
 I want to know how long tha land 'ud be 
 tilled. 
 An' what 'ud becum ov the whole human 
 race : 
 I want ta know what 'ud becum ov the gals, 
 An' what ov tha chapj, if yer left 'em alone, 
 An', furdor, it Natur' herself be a fule. 
 
 An' fashuned two hurves that she ort to 'vo 
 made one ? 
 
 Id's tha danged idle crew that bo bradin' too 
 fast, 
 Tha slugs and tha wai-mints that cover tha 
 land, 
 Tha great breed ov locusts that cum loike a 
 cloud, 
 An' lave tha earth bare as the back ov my 
 hand. 
 Thar be plenty ov work in the world left 
 undone. 
 An' plenty ov pay, iv tha doer be free ; 
 So, 1 lets all the humbugs prach on as they 
 loike. 
 But I toll 'em in arni.-t they don't humbug 
 me. 
 
 THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 
 
 Yes, this be the village you axed for, 
 
 You've seed it, no doubt, sir, afore, 
 And that bo the school in that garden, 
 
 And there be the " George and Bluo Boar.'' 
 That owd chap be Timothy Mumford, 
 
 Ay, doctor, sir, that bo his trade ; 
 No, his customers beant got no money, 
 
 Ho beant over rich, I'm afraid. 
 
 If it warn't for the dogs and the horses. 
 
 The cows, and tho pigs, and the sheep, 
 He wouldn't earn enough, I've a fancy, 
 
 To pay for his lodging and keep; 
 But he makes a good deal out o' cattle. 
 
 For he's gotten a good name for they. 
 And I once heard him say to a noighboor, 
 
 " That we human beings don't pay. 
 
 I knows he be doccntish clever. 
 
 Though his enemies oftentimes scoff; 
 
 For he settled my dad of bis lameness 
 Ay cutting his two legs right off.
 
 50 
 
 KIMBURTON. 
 
 Ho di;l, sir. as clean as a ■whistle, 
 And he hasn't no pains in 'em now, 
 
 And ho once guv'd a horse a tin windpipe, 
 And fixed wooden legs on a cow. 
 
 When the squire s:ot spilt from Old Easpor, 
 
 Thoy carried him rii^ht off to bod 
 Then drove down like uiad for the doctor 
 
 To pnt a big plato in his head ; 
 But, afore he would wenter to do it. 
 
 The folks in tho willago declai-e. 
 That ho borrowed a couple o' paupers, 
 
 Cut holes, and tin-platod the pair. 
 
 The fust chap died sudden, soon arter, 
 
 And twelve men sot on him next day. 
 Oh ! it knocked up a bit of a rumpus, 
 
 But, there, sir, it soon blowed away; 
 The sekund, Phil Ginger, pulled through it. 
 
 He was stronger, yer sec, than his mate; 
 And that's how it bo why thoy chaiTs him. 
 
 And cries out, " Who kollored tho plate ? " 
 
 Yes. he put down tho drink in tho wurkus, 
 
 lie did. sir, indeed, that bo true; 
 I've seed him a-puttin' it down, sir, 
 
 1 have, sir. atween me and you; 
 Ho has put it down, too, in the village! 
 
 Oh ! yos, sir, ho puts it down hero; 
 And I follors tho doctor, I does, sir, 
 
 I'm famous for puttin' down beer. 
 
 It bo said ho gets summat on cofBns, 
 
 I've heerd it's a pound on a score ; 
 Ho bo thick, wery thick, wi' the sexton, 
 
 And tho carpenter, livin' next door. 
 Oh I yos. they oft fuddle together. 
 
 And, nicrht after night, may be seen, 
 All a-sittiu' in yonder bar-parlour, 
 
 In the " Dog and Duck," facin' tho green. 
 
 It bo ugly for paupers when doctor 
 
 Has gotten nineteen on liis slate, 
 For the twentieth, to make up tho number, 
 
 Will often turn rusty and wait : 
 But. in course, doctor's not be humbugged, 
 
 He's got nineteen out of a score. 
 So he guvs ono a strong slcepin' powdei'. 
 
 And danged if he wakes eny more. 
 
 Now, the way doctor fisicks them paupers. 
 
 Do summat trcmenjus I hear, 
 An'l he ses tlie rich food that they swaller, 
 
 Is more than their stummicks can bear : 
 All paupers, ho tells us, be gluttons, 
 
 And always a-askin' for more. 
 And, he Be«, it be this ovor-cramming 
 
 Ttiat kills half tho English jioor. 
 
 Oh! yos, sir, they stick to Old Jlumford, 
 
 An' pracher and he be a pair. 
 For, rnnienibor, when anyone's buried. 
 
 Tin parson comes in for a share'; 
 Lor ! love yor ! why, can't yor seo through it ? 
 
 Thoy dou't want a sawbones to save, 
 Wlien their profit bo out o' deatli-sarvice, 
 
 The cofHn, and diggin' o' grave. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE DUCKS. 
 
 A friend I know, a sort of Arch-apostle, 
 Went forth to preach to labourers the gospel ; 
 Ho spoke in x^arables, told funny stories. 
 And won tho name of " Firebrand," from tho 
 
 Tories. 
 Of a'l his tales, take this one as a sample, 
 And mark how precept mingles with exam- 
 ple. 
 "Now, listen, yo, who win vour bread by 
 
 toil. 
 And water with your sweat the thirsty soil," 
 This introduction, I am bound to mention. 
 Both praised and pleased them, and secured 
 
 attention. 
 *' I knew a friond, who lived in Clerkenwell, 
 In truth, to bo precise, in Coldbatb 
 Square, 
 In summer time, he u-ed to take a spell, 
 And drink in, what he called, 'his native 
 air.' 
 My friend was jolly, and exc3eding pleasant, 
 And never left that spot without a pre-enD — 
 A duck, a fowl, a goose, a hare, or y)'ieas:int. 
 In London, folks are packed so strangely 
 
 tight, 
 Thero is no spaco for breathing, nor for 
 
 light; 
 But, still, by endless schemings, they con- 
 trive. 
 Though pressed like herrings, still to keep 
 
 alivo, 
 In London, new-laid eggs are always dear, 
 And, spito of warrantries, are often queer; 
 So came tho thought, so novel and bewitch- 
 ing, 
 Ile'd poultry buy, and turn them in tho 
 
 kitchen. 
 And thus it was, though numbering onlj 
 
 foul-. 
 In two short years, he owned, at lea-,t, a 
 score. 
 Each morn 
 With corn 
 In basin. 
 He'd hasten. 
 And scatter it, with that peculiar '•ry. 
 That I have known o make the \.ingloss fly.
 
 HIMBURTON, 
 
 51 
 
 No timo to lose, each fowl flew off its perch, 
 And set to work with all its might and 
 
 main. 
 ^Vith twisted nock 
 Each took a pock. 
 
 That is a peck at, not a peck of grain. 
 Swift in their wake, the greedy ducks 
 
 arrived, 
 And, with their shovel beaks, they soon con- 
 trived, 
 Of corn, thick-strewn, to cleanse the reeking 
 
 floor, 
 And ^'lutton-liko, to look around for more. 
 My friend loved justice, equity and right, 
 And hold in horror every sign of greed, 
 A shovelful, against a single bite, 
 
 I cannot stand, whatever bo your brood. 
 Next morn, to market, every duck I'll pack, 
 No — all save one ; I'll keep the old drake 
 
 back, 
 And, sure enough, ho took them in a sack. 
 Still, still, be found 
 That he was bound 
 Fresh steps to take, 
 For justico'sake, 
 With Mister Drake. 
 
 That greedy rascal with his shovel beak, 
 Would eat enough to last a fowl a week. 
 Now, here I'll tell you, to prevent distraction, 
 My friend was what you'd call a man of 
 
 action ; 
 A thing resolved by him, was soon begun, 
 And, ere your eye could twinkle, it was 
 
 done. 
 He shouted for a file, and this was brought, 
 And, in a moment, Mr. Drake was caught. 
 Then, imitating Crispin, with his last, 
 Eetween his knees he nipped him firm and 
 
 fast, 
 And, li'.<e a man, who trades with care and 
 
 skill, 
 Said, « Mr. Drake, I'll file your little bill !" 
 With steady strokes he wore away its edge, 
 'Till, when complete, twas pointed like a 
 
 wedge. 
 "Kow, go," said he, 
 " I leave you free. 
 
 And when I strew the corn upon the floor, 
 You'll take your whack with others, and no 
 
 more. 
 All armed alike, you'll own at least that's 
 
 fair — 
 The weak and strong must equitably share." 
 Now to apply the story I have told. 
 The land is God's, however bought and sold. 
 I heed not purchase, gifts, nor kingly grants, 
 'Twas given to all to satisfy their wants. 
 Now, mark mo ! if landlords show their greed, 
 And choose like ducks in gluttony to feed, 
 
 On this advice, friends, I would have you 
 
 dwell: — 
 Just servo them like the ducks in Glerken- 
 
 well. 
 
 — — 
 
 KIMBUKTON REVELS. 
 
 I was only just put into breeches, 
 
 But, dang it, I loiked to bo there; 
 I was good for a bit of excitement 
 
 Tliat's found in a country fair: 
 I loikod to see fun and be jolly, 
 
 With nothin' somedeavour to pay, 
 S^ I turned up the weeding of iugyons, 
 
 And took myself off for the day. 
 
 I followed the course of the river. 
 
 And, turning by Martindalo Oak, 
 I ]iassod by the Floodgate Pool Waters. 
 
 Where all the live frogs used to cro;ik: 
 Then I entered the gate of the meadow. 
 
 And, careless of garden or weed, 
 I twigged a big pole bearing mutton, 
 
 A-growing without any seed. 
 
 I thought all the people seemed hungry, 
 
 They looked at the meat in the sky. 
 And one on 'em cried with a snigger, 
 
 •' I couldn't tackle mutton so high," 
 " If it bo," said another, '• it's sweet, chap," 
 
 Who wa^ roaring like wild at the fun, 
 But when Tinker ran off" with ihe mutton, 
 
 He confessed 'twas a little bit gone ! 
 
 Then they took out a pig from a barrow, 
 
 And guved him a slippery tail. 
 When, loosing the halter that bound him, 
 
 He started away in full sail; 
 The people went wild with excitement. 
 
 They jostled each other like mad, 
 'Till the Slicking pig, winded and gasping, 
 
 Was caught by Joe Birmingham's Lid. 
 
 Then a score o' chaps mounted a platform, 
 
 To grin through a collar for prize. 
 And they blew out their faces like bladders, 
 
 And turned up the whites of their eyes ; 
 And one wagged his tongue like a sarpint. 
 
 And another stretched mouth a yard wide. 
 And chaps kept a-roarin' wi' laughter, 
 
 'Till one tumbled down by my side. 
 
 The next game they played was a stunner, 
 
 It was wittles without any grace, 
 And all of the people who seed it. 
 
 Were laughing all over their face : 
 On the top of a bit of a scaffold, 
 
 Tliey fixed up a rail overhead. 
 And down came a shower of ire ic'o. 
 
 From small bits o' cloud, made of bread.
 
 52 
 
 KI1VTBT?BT0K. 
 
 I be darned if the people wern't busting, 
 
 Tliere never ou eartli was such fun — 
 Every player was sticky all over, . 
 
 Like a sugar stick left in the sun. 
 And thou eamo a huge Hock of feathers, 
 
 That took every soul by surprise, 
 And, egad! when they, stuck in the treacle, 
 
 Xo mortal o'er pictured such guys. 
 
 3Iy sides wore nigh splitting with laughter, 
 
 It wasn't a titter or grin — 
 I pressed both my hands to my stomach, 
 
 A-purpose to keep a bit in; 
 But of laughter, Id got a great fortune. 
 
 And though I'd a big score to pay, 
 I was forced for to keep on a-laughing, 
 
 'Till treacle was cleared right away. 
 
 When I look at a man that's ambitious, 
 
 To get to the top of the tree, 
 The thought of them chaps that were climb- 
 
 Be sartin to come back to me ; 
 I sees him climb up. then keep slipping, 
 
 Or may he come down with a run ; 
 But, what's disappointed ambition 
 
 To all the on-lookers but fun ? 
 
 When I goes to the 'sizes at Silster, 
 
 And sees a big judge in a wig, 
 I cannot help thinking that justice 
 
 Bo harder to catch than a pig ; 
 And, when looking at Misselburgh minster 
 
 I sees the queer faces cut there. 
 And feel sartin the old chap who cut *em 
 
 Had bin to the Bachelor's Fair. 
 
 When I sees a chap courting a maiden, 
 
 I remember that fair with a grin. 
 And I thinks of the roU.s and the treacle, 
 
 And the mess ho be sure to get in; 
 And when, after waiting and watching. 
 
 He's caught the sweet roll of her eye, 
 I says to myself, with a chuckle, 
 
 " The feathers '11 come bye and bye !" 
 
 FAREWELL ! TO KlMBURTO^r. 
 
 Though my scenes be e'er so homely, 
 
 I've painted them with care ; 
 Strove to give them life and action, 
 
 Leaving nothing stiff and bare. 
 I have tried to catcli their features, 
 
 And fix them firm and fast ; 
 As I see them float before me, 
 
 And saw them in the past. 
 
 I have sought no light of fiction, 
 
 But wrought for truth alone ; 
 Called back every scene Time blotted — 
 
 Its colour, depth and tone ; 
 Drawn no fancied, ideal portraits. 
 
 But copied blot and stain, 
 And shown them on my canvas 
 
 As though they breathed again. 
 
 Thoy may lack in skill and grandeur, 
 
 And fail in breadth of view; 
 But the blindest will not tell me 
 
 I've been to truth untrue ; 
 That I've changed the form and colour. 
 
 To win a patron's pay ; 
 Or have drawn upon my fancy 
 
 For models in the clay. 
 
 I have lived and loved Kimburton^ 
 
 And madly love it still, 
 And I cherish every feature — 
 
 Its school-house, church and milL 
 Each nook and shady hollow, 
 
 Each hanger, copse and grove— 
 The spot where love first whispered, 
 
 And I first answered love. 
 
 Though I look on tufted hillocks. 
 
 They hide no friend from mo ; 
 Every mortal I have pictured, 
 
 I, living, yet can see; 
 Ay, breathing in my presence. 
 
 Though mouldering in the clay, 
 And, while thoy hover round me, 
 
 I know no yesterday. 
 
 -0 — 
 
 I
 
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