THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MIRTH, MANNERS, I AIIIS, 
 
 AND MEN, 
 
 Being a Series of Miscellaneous Poems, Comic, Satirical 
 
 and Serious. 
 
 HY 
 
 FISHER SIMPSON 
 
 "Satire's my weapon; but I'm too discreet 
 "To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet." 
 
 — Pope. 
 
 LONDON : 
 Houlston & Sons, Paternoster Square, E.C. 
 
 LEICESTER : 
 C. Ol.DERSHAW, GRANBY STREET,
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting the following unpretending little Volume as a 
 candidate for a small share of public favor, the Author is 
 conscious of many defects and shortcomings, but trusts to the 
 leniency of an indulgent public to accept any litjtle fun, or 
 amusement which his crude fancies may afford, as some com- 
 pensation for any shortcomings that are manifest. 
 
 Some of the scraps accumulated here have already been 
 published separately in various periodicals, and the amusement 
 derived by many friends, from some of the more humorous 
 productions induces the Author to give them, with others, a 
 more extensive circulation. 
 
 That the little work will escape the merciless criticism of 
 some he does not for one moment suppose ; but if it affords 
 amusement and recreation to the general public and is appreciated 
 by them, he will feel amply satisfied. 
 
 It has been more than once said, that "He who'd make a 
 pun would pick a pocket," but the Author is sanguine that the 
 readers of his little book will derive sufficient enjoyment from 
 harmless play upon words, where it occurs, to make them admit 
 at least, that their pockets have not been picked in the purchase 
 of the little work. 
 
 865181
 
 Errata. 
 
 Page 79, 20th line, for " deserv'd," read deserved. 
 
 Page 103, 28th line, the word " my" omitted. Read 
 " But now she is my bride."
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 COMIC AND SATIRICAL POEMS. 
 
 I'AGK 
 
 1'IIK GREAT BARNBTBCW SEMIBREVIC, ORATORIC, AM) GLEE UNION 9 
 
 TIIK IIORSKY-MULE-ASSH'AI, CLl'B 19 
 
 THE NOSE CLUB ------ 23 
 
 A SPECTRAL ILLUSION -.--.. 27 
 
 JOHN DOW ....... 32 
 
 A SONG (RESPECTFULLY' DEDICATED TO THE LONDON SCHOOL HOARD) 33 
 
 HOW I LOST A FORTUNE ----.. 36 
 
 EIGHT HOURS AT THE SEA-SIDE FOR HALF-A-CROWN - - 38 
 
 BABYHOOD ....... 4Q 
 
 self versus PACE ---.-. 42 
 
 ODE TO A TAX COLLECTOR - .... 45 
 
 A NAUTICAL NARRATIVE ...... 46 
 
 A BIOGRAPHY - - .... 49 
 
 JIM SMITH ....... 51 
 
 THE FIRST BABY ...... 53 
 
 TALE OF A TAILOR ...... 54 
 
 THE MUS1CAI COBBLER ------ 56 
 
 a willing donor ...... 58 
 
 HE ONLY SQUEEZED MY HAND - - 60 
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE FLAGON ----- 61 
 
 TOPICAL SONG WRITTEN FOR A CHILD .... 63 
 
 ORIGINAL POPULAR COMIC SONG - - - - 05 
 
 THE UNHAPPY ENGINE DRIVER - - - - -6,1 
 
 A DIRE CALAMITY ...... 71 
 
 A SONG, " Tilt; YOUNG MAN OF THE PERIOD " - - ~ J. 
 
 TICHBOUNIA ....... 74
 
 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WYNNIE GRAY ------- 79 
 
 THE SABBATH ------- 95 
 
 RICHES AND POVERTY ------ 96 
 
 A father's LOVE ....-- 97 
 
 THE STORM ------- 99 
 
 A MOTTO SONG, "IF YOU CAN'T DO HIM GOOD, DON'T DO HIM HARM" 100 
 
 THE TRAITOR'S KISS ------ 101 
 
 A SONG, " IN YONDER GLEN " ----- 103 
 
 IN MEMOKIAM ------- 104 
 
 STARVED t------- 105 
 
 THE SONG OF A CLERK ------ 107 
 
 THE POOR CLERK'S APPEAL .... - 109 
 
 an unaccountable transaction .... ill 
 
 A MOTTO SONG ------- 113 
 
 IN MEMORIAM OF THE LATE COUNCILLOR BAKRS - . - 114 
 
 DESTITUTE ------- 115 
 
 RIPTON MANOR HOUSE — A TRAGEDY ... - 118 
 
 THE MISER ------- 122 
 
 ACROSTICS -.----- 124 
 
 A TOPICAL VERSE .... - 127
 
 COMIC AND SATIRICAL POEMS,
 
 THE GREAT BARNETBOW SEMIBREVIC, 
 ORATORIC, AND GLEE UNION. 
 
 In the town of Barnetbow, 
 Not a hundred years ago, 
 
 There were amateur musicians, not a few, 
 Who resolved that there should be 
 A select society 
 
 Of all amateurs who zealous were, and true. 
 
 ii. 
 
 On success they all were bent, 
 So an invitation sent 
 
 To each amateur whose name to them was known. 
 And a day they did appoint, 
 When, by taking action joint, 
 
 In two senses they might give the thing a tone. 
 
 in. 
 
 The appointed day arrived, 
 When all those who had contrived 
 
 To be present, met in highest state of glee. 
 For their prospects at a glance 
 Seemed to promise a fair chance 
 
 Of establishing a sound society.
 
 10 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of the ladies, a full score, 
 Or it may be a few more, 
 
 Who sang alto, or soprano, or sang both. 
 Some the piano too could touch, 
 Many more could not do much, 
 
 But to be excluded all were very loth. 
 
 Then the gents, a motley crew, 
 Who all sorts of things could do, 
 
 Singing alto, tenor, baritone, or bass. 
 Fiddles, flutes, and a saxhorn, 
 All with souls for music born, 
 
 Crowded in, and struggled hard to get a place. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mister Randall first arose, 
 And he briefly did propose 
 
 On a chairman they should first be all agreed. 
 So, without much more ado 
 They proposed a name or two, 
 
 And suggested that the business should proceed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 All formalities soon o'er, 
 They agreed that nothing more 
 
 Now remained, except the members to enrol. 
 All invited gave their names, 
 Men and boys, sweet girls and dames, 
 
 Those who sang and those who played, a medley droll. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Such a formidable Band 
 
 Ne'er was seen throughout the land, 
 
 And the choir was unequalled anywhere, 
 As they said, you'll always find 
 Singers, players, string and wind, 
 
 In such numbers, so united very rare
 
 THE GREAT I1ARNETB0W UNION. I r 
 
 IX. 
 
 For their feelings were so kind, 
 They agreed they did not mind 
 
 Any sacrifice made for the common good ; 
 No conductor they would need, 
 But each member should instead 
 
 Give his own opinion in a kindly mood. 
 
 x. 
 
 Said a poet of great fame 
 Long ago, " What's in a name ?" 
 
 But the members thought their name should be no 
 puny 'un ; 
 They aspired high, and so 
 Named it " The Great Barnetbow 
 
 " Semibrevic, Oratoric, and Glee Union." 
 
 XI. 
 
 They would start as neighbours ought, 
 And when music had been bought, 
 
 On a given night for practice they would meet. 
 Each returned to his own home, 
 Longing for that night to come, 
 
 The anticipation seeming twofold sweet. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then for music each one wrote, 
 Some in sol-fa, some old note, 
 
 Oratorios and anthems, songs and glees ; 
 While a lively few resolved 
 That whatever it involved 
 
 Some quadrilles and galops them alone would please. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Lots of music of each sort 
 Very speedily was bought, 
 
 And old amateurs turned out contents of drawers, 
 Mouldy books were dried and aired, 
 Broken fiddles were repaired, 
 
 And new strings and bows were laid in stock by scores,
 
 I2 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then each lady tried her voice, 
 And endeavoured to make choice 
 
 Of the part that she herself would like to sing ; 
 What with some who now were old, 
 And no end who had a cold, 
 
 To decide was found a somewhat awkward thing. 
 
 xv. 
 
 For in nearly every case, 
 After many a grimace, 
 
 She who could sing alto, much preferred the lead ; 
 While soprano voices thought 
 It was really time they ought 
 
 To be allowed to sing the alto part instead. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Cures for colds were vainly sought, 
 Pounds of lozenges were bought, 
 
 Bronchial troches made by "Brown" were sucked ad lib, 
 While each one began to boast 
 Of the concerts (such a host) 
 
 At which they'd sung, and told full many a " fib." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But the great eventful night 
 
 Came at length, 'mid much delight ; 
 
 And the members all assembled in the hall, 
 Fiddle cases, music books, 
 Singers, all with cheerful looks, 
 
 Players, with their instruments both great and small. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then the tuning-up occurred, 
 Reader, have you ever heard 
 
 That performance by a very third-rate band ? 
 If you've not, then I entreat 
 Do not seek for such a treat : 
 
 If you have, why, all its charms you'll understand.
 
 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 1 3 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Mister Brown was certain that 
 Mister Jones was " awful flat," 
 
 And the double bass, he said, was out of tune. 
 Then the bass began to carp, 
 And declared that " Brown " was sharp, 
 
 While another laid the fault on the bassoon. 
 
 xx. 
 
 And not only was there this, 
 But a great deal more amiss. 
 
 E'en the singers could not very well agree, 
 For a middle-aged mamma 
 Would persist that in each " bar " 
 
 It was right to count thirteen, instead of three. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Then the choice of music too 
 Was not left to just a few ; 
 
 But the members gave opinions most diverse, 
 Till a medley most unique, 
 Which to play would take a week, 
 
 Made confusion, great already, even worse. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Mister Drake preferred " Mozart," 
 Misses Jones said they'd no heart 
 
 For such " trash," and only cared for lively glees ; 
 While Master Johnny Randall 
 Swore unless they studied " Handel," 
 
 He should stay away as oft as he might please. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thus it was they quickly learnt, 
 Though so well disposed, they wer'nt 
 
 To be trusted to conduct themselves alone. 
 So at length they all agreed 
 That they only stood in need 
 
 Of a Leader whose authority they'd own.
 
 14 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 They could all with greatest ease 
 See what was the real disease ; 
 
 But the choice of a conductor was more hard, 
 For each thought himself the best, 
 And made little of the rest, 
 
 So each candidate in turn they did discard. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But at length a compromise, 
 Which was voted very wise, 
 
 Was proposed, and in due course agreed upon. 
 To conduct, each one might burn, 
 So they all should have a turn, 
 
 And the first conductor should commence anon. 
 
 xxvi. 
 
 So, 'mid fuss, and much parade, 
 A fair start at length was made, 
 
 And a concert was announced without delay. 
 Then the programme, a bit later 
 Was prepared, with Stabat Mater, 
 
 Operatic gems, selections, grave and gay. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Songs and glees by scores rehearsed, 
 Resolutions made, reversed. 
 
 Comic songs were mixed with overtures sublime, 
 Instrumental solos tried, 
 While each with the other vied 
 
 In producing the most noise in the worst time. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 They who knew the most were meek, 
 They who nothing knew, had "cheek." 
 
 So the worst performers took the highest post, 
 While the few with common sense, 
 Who made very slight pretence, 
 
 Had the least to do, although they knew the most.
 
 THE GREAT 13ARNETB0W UNION. 1 5 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 As the concert became due, 
 More intense excitement grew. 
 
 And the Barnetbonians, bent upon a treat, 
 Filled the Barnetbow Town Hall, 
 Body, gallery, and stall ; 
 
 Ne'er before was such a concourse known to meet. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then with ostentatious show 
 All the fiddlers formed a row, 
 
 Trumpets, flutes, bassoons, and basses, — then a pause ; 
 While the choir, in full dress, 
 Looking charming, you may guess, 
 
 Filled the orchestra, 'mid bursts of loud applause. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Now, the gent who had conducted 
 At the practices, instructed 
 
 All the members to commence on the third " beat " 
 In the opening overture ; 
 But impressed them to be sure 
 
 And remember in the middle a repeat. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 But memories perverse 
 Often prove a mortal curse : 
 
 And it happened just so in the present case, 
 For the bass began too soon, 
 While the fiddlers, out of tune, 
 
 Started wrong at first, and never found their place. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Such confusion then ensued, 
 It was clearly not much good 
 
 To attempt to pull together any more. 
 So each one on his own hook, 
 A distinctive course soon took, 
 
 Playing what came first, until the piece was o'er.
 
 1 6 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But no sooner was it done 
 
 Than throughout the Hall begun, — 
 
 Not a hiss ; but most vociferous applause. 
 And what's more, tho' it seems comical — 
 Unless it was ironical — 
 
 There were heard throughout no end of loud e'ncores. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Though the overture was hashed, 
 The performers were'nt abashed, 
 
 For they promptly rose, intending to respond ; 
 But a hearty burst of laughter, 
 Which they all remembered after, 
 
 Made them feel of public playing far less fond. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 Followed this a song or two, 
 And of anthems just a few, 
 
 Then another such performance by the Band. 
 While a solo on the fiddle, 
 Which broke down about the middle, 
 
 Brought the programme to a termination grand. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 The performers home did sneak, 
 But they met again next week, 
 
 And in wrath resolved to ascertain the reason 
 Of the failure they had made 
 After all attention paid, 
 
 Some one surely had been guilty of high treason. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But altho' they all concurr'd 
 The performance was absurd, 
 
 Yet, not one would own that he himself was wrong. 
 The Band swore they were right, 
 The Conductor they were " tight," 
 
 Each resorting to recriminations strong. .
 
 THE GREAT liARNETBOW UNION. I 7 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Mister Fiddlcjohn declared 
 He himself was quite prepared 
 
 To make affidavit he played every note : 
 While the Clarionet squeaked out 
 That the Trombone put him out, 
 
 And a Singer swore he'd something in his throat. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Then the Trombone in disgust 
 Said he hoped that he might " bust " 
 
 If he ever played with such a crew again. 
 Without further hesitation 
 Tendered he his resignation, 
 
 Such remarks he felt his character might stain. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Upon this, near half the Band 
 Said they really could not stand 
 
 Such a slur upon the Trombone's reputation. 
 They should all resign forthwith, 
 For they thought that Mister Smith 
 
 Had good cause for his most righteous indignation. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 No remonstrance would avail, 
 For the party all turned tail, 
 
 And appeared upon the scene again no more. 
 Then the Choir followed suit, 
 And a Fiddle and a Flute 
 
 But remained, the sad disruption to deplore. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The Society was thus 
 Without any pomp, or fuss, 
 
 Then dissolved ; and all the members did disperse. 
 Fastest friends they all had started, 
 Bitter enemies they parted, 
 
 For the intercourse decidedly the worse.
 
 i8 
 
 THE GREAT BARNETBOW UNION. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Some wise one's said they " knew 
 " Such an Union would'nt do, 
 
 " But of course no one attended to their pleadings. "- 
 While the clever cards did own 
 That 'twas best to play alone, 
 
 Or to " star " at rural village penny readings.
 
 THE HORSEY-MULE-ASSICAL CLUB. 
 
 A LEGEND WITH A MORAL. 
 
 Some miles from here, 
 When meat was dear, 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 A lot of folk 
 Swore 'twas no joke, 
 
 And vowed the cause they'd know. 
 And so they met 
 To learn it, yet 
 
 No light on it was thrown ; 
 So being vexed, 
 Bethought them next 
 
 What best was to be done. 
 
 Then one below 
 Exclaimed, " I know 
 
 " What all of you should do— 
 " Invite each friend 
 " Who'll condescend 
 
 " To join our meeting too, 
 " And thus a free 
 " Society 
 
 " Can laugh at Butcher's bills. 
 " We'll try a new 
 " Idea or two, 
 
 " Whether it cures, or kills. 
 " In early times 
 " In these same climes 
 
 " Bull beef was hardly known,
 
 20 THE HORSEY-MULE-ASSICAL CLUB. 
 
 " While horses' flesh 
 " Was deemed a dish 
 
 " Fit, not for dogs alone, 
 " For Christian men 
 " Enjoyed it then, 
 
 " So why should we not now. 
 " A mule, or ass 
 " You can't surpass 
 
 " If rightly dressed, I trow." 
 
 On this most sublime subject of " grub," 
 All the members then met at a " pub." 
 And each one was install'd 
 In a club, which they called 
 "The Horsey-Mule-Assical Club." 
 
 The Chairman, a classical gent, 
 Was on punishing butchers now bent. 
 As for beef, and for mutton, 
 Why, he cared not a button, 
 And to do without either he meant. 
 
 Said he, " Friends, every joint you'll obtain 
 For a moderate price, I maintain. 
 
 You may have lots of 'courses' 
 
 From asses and horses, 
 And you'll relish your food in the main. 
 
 A /iee\ pie is as easily made 
 
 From an animal who, in life, brayed, 
 
 As from long slimy fish. 
 
 And a savoury dish 
 May be got from a donkey decayed. 
 
 If a saddle of mutton is dear, 
 
 The alternative surely is clear. 
 Have horse saddle instead, 
 With a slice of new bread, 
 
 And from hunger you've nothing to fear.
 
 THE HORSEY-MULE-ASSICAL CLUB. 2 1 
 
 Once again, there's the sou]) made from hare, 
 Why I don't care a snap for that 'ere, 
 
 For horse hair docs as well, 
 
 And there is'nt much smell 
 (Nor taste either), so we need'nt care. 
 
 Then the tongue of a horse, — at least some, 
 Very tender in time would become, 
 
 Any fool could bite it, 
 
 For it's often near bit 
 During life, which perhaps makes it dumb." 
 
 Horsey — mule — assicalians, all 
 
 Young and old, women, men, great and small, 
 
 Vowed that henceforth they'd be, 
 
 And that only these three 
 Kinds of meat would they eat till next " call." 
 
 ****** 
 
 When twelve months had elapsed, the most awful results 
 Manifested themselves on both young and adults ; 
 For the new-fashioned meat had so altered them all, 
 That their personal habits began to appal. 
 
 A most dignified gent, who had eaten a " hack," 
 Had a saddle full size growing out of his back ; 
 While the rains seemed to irritate old men and young, 
 And one lady unconsciously bridled her tongue. 
 
 Some had learnt to tell tales, one was growing " long-eared," 
 While a parson pulled too much at collar 'twas feared ; 
 Of another all traces were lost, that was " Bray," 
 And a miser when asked for some cash gave a nay. 
 
 Then another commenced soon to ill-use his wife, 
 Took to kicking and biting, and threatened her life ; 
 Upright conduct discarding, he went on all fours, 
 Brought her toe when she fainted, by heeling her sores.
 
 22 
 
 THE HORSEY-MULE-ASSICAL CLUB. 
 
 But the saddest results of this /torsey-ficaXion, 
 Were some terrible cases of ass-ass-ination ; 
 For each Butcher received an attack on his life, 
 And the Club to this day maintain war to the knife. 
 
 Moral. 
 Reduce the price of Meat, and let the Donkeys live.
 
 THE NOSE CLUB. 
 
 " Union is Strength," and thus it is, I trow, 
 The human family always unite. 
 Some take upon themselves the marriage vow 
 Under the Church's blessing, — or in spite 
 
 Of all that's right, 
 Themselves together link, for good or bad, — 
 More often in such case it is the latter, — 
 And ask no Church's blessing ; tho' 'tis sad 
 They seem to think such trifles do not matter. 
 Others agree to Deed of Partnership — 
 Oft disagree almost ere they embark. — 
 Plurality appears a safe bulwark, 
 Unless, perchance, one makes an awkward slip. — 
 So Corporations, and Societies, 
 Committees too, and Clubs are often formed, 
 For numbers seem peculiarly to please, 
 By intercourse our hearts are often warmed. 
 
 However, be the reason this, or that, 
 Somehow, men won't go singly ; but prefer 
 To meet in numbers, even though they hate 
 The very fellows with whom they confer. 
 Thus folks combine for objects most diverse, 
 And keep for their pet scheme one common purse ; 
 Some to provide the blacks with gospel news, 
 And some to preach new gospels to the whites. 
 Others provide street arabs with new shoes, 
 Another one to black gents' boots delights. 
 Some aim at finding blankets for the poor, 
 Some try to find some poor to use the blankets. 
 Some meet for what is vulgarly called " jaw," 
 And some just to exhibit dress and trinkets.
 
 24 THE NOSE CLUB. 
 
 I know a Club, the name I'll not reveal, 
 But simply with the fact propose to deal. 
 Do not imagine I am throwing chaff 
 To catch old birds, nor greet me with a laugh 
 When I declare the object of this Club, 
 Which holds its meetings at a well-known " pub," 
 Is to discover just which member grows 
 
 The largest raspberry Nose. 
 
 The Club is thoroughly well organised 
 With President, Committee, Rules most clear, 
 And scores of Members who are duly prized 
 According to the nose each one can rear. 
 In a weak moment once I did attempt 
 To join this Club, but little had I dreamt 
 How clan-like and exclusive were the sect. 
 Nor had I thought how soon they could detect 
 My lack of fitness for full membership, 
 Until I underwent a scrutiny 
 Most keen, and had the " tip " that my nose /// 
 Had not sufficient of the " raspberry " 
 At present, to entitle me to join, 
 In spite of all I offered them in coin. 
 
 The President had a most splendid nose, 
 'Twas quite a pattern for the smaller fry 
 In size and color ; but do not suppose 
 You'll cultivate one soon, so do not try. 
 His was the rich reward of many years 
 Of true allegiance to the ruby cup, — 
 That cup which Templars good say never cheers, 
 But oft inebriates all those who sup, 
 He did sometimes protest with modesty, 
 That really it was only honesty 
 To say the credit was not all his own. 
 'Twas constitutional in him as well, 
 But those who knew him best, said he alone 
 Had perfected that organ made to smell.
 
 THE NOSE CLUB. 25 
 
 Not so the Secretary, who had once 
 Been president of a Good Templar lodge ; 
 But speedily the cause he did renounce, 
 Convinced he knew a better paying dodge, 
 So joined the " Nose Club," and to cultivate 
 A raspberry resolved, altho' full late ; 
 And to his credit, be it said, he spared 
 No pains, nor cash, that he might soon produce 
 A nose such as the president had reared : 
 But he, in time, discovered 'twas no use, 
 For as to knowledge there's no royal road, — 
 And Rome, 'tis said, was not built in a day. 
 So, notwithstanding endless care bestow'd, 
 And frequent drinks, for which he had to pay, 
 His nose, tho' great proportions it assumed 
 Yet, never fully bloomed. 
 
 One brother, who was in the spirit line, 
 Had taken six successive years the prize 
 For having of all noses the most fine, 
 Not only in bright color, but great size. 
 'Twas said this nose had cost a thousand pound, 
 And that its size was such, its owner found 
 It difficult at times to see beyond. 
 Nevertheless, he was of it so fond, 
 That of all comforts he himself would drain, 
 That he might still this blooming nose maintain. 
 
 But there was one case which was really sad, 
 A promising young man, for seven years, 
 Had struggled hard, 'mid many doubts and fears, 
 Just to develope what small nose he had ; 
 
 Until its size 
 
 Should block both eyes, 
 
 And he might rise 
 
 Thus in the eyes 
 And estimation of each brother " nose." 
 But when I say it, you will scarce suppose 
 It possible, that try whate'er he would, 
 No size, nor colour he could e'er induce. 
 Though freely he imbibed malt liquor good, 
 Old Tom, MarteITs, and Grape's seductive juice, 
 c
 
 THE NOSE CLUB. 
 
 Like a balloon his body did expand. 
 His nerves gave way, he lost his steady hand — 
 And legs as well, — but though it may seem strange, 
 His nose would never change. 
 
 But on a very special night at length, 
 The members all assembled in full strength, 
 Some very urgent business to discuss, 
 When the most cruel catastrophe occurr'd, 
 Which ever you conceived, much less have heard, 
 And caused throughout the town an endless fuss. 
 The members all appeared, a goodly throng, 
 The business o'er, each on enjoyment bent, 
 With oft filled glasses and convivial song ; 
 Passion unchecked by mutual consent, 
 Loud and more loud their laughter did become, 
 As disappeared each bowl of hot punch rum : 
 Faces grew red, till then as white as snow, 
 And every nose assumed a fiery glow. 
 Each one was soaked in spirit overproof, 
 Forgetting what concerned his own behoof, 
 When suddenly a spark fell from a " briar," 
 
 And every nose caught fire. 
 In vain for help each to the other turned ; 
 In vain they shrieked, the spirit in them burned. 
 A flame from every nose-tip soon appeared , 
 By saturated bodies kept supplied ; 
 Outsiders, long shut out, rushed in and tried 
 T'extinguish it ; but for a time 'twas feared 
 The license " to consume upon the premises " 
 Included not spirits alone, but carcases. 
 But 'tis a long lane which has not a turn, 
 And lamps but seldom will for ever burn. 
 So from exhaustion sheer, it is presumed, 
 Aided by pots of tea, without a doubt, 
 When all the spirits in them were consumed, 
 
 Their noses were put out. 
 But " Tipplers" to this day the mark retain, 
 And hence it happens always, I suppose, 
 Whoe'er indulges in a frequent " drain," 
 
 Displays a fiery nose.
 
 A SPECTRAL ILLUSION. 
 
 'Twas on a cold and frosty night 
 
 In January bleak, 
 The ground beneath with snow was white. 
 
 The clouds did storm bespeak. 
 A proper night indeed, it seemed 
 
 For ghosts and sprites to roam ; 
 Events of which I little dreamed, 
 
 Took me away from home. 
 
 On that eventful night of fears, 
 
 My " Dad " did entertain 
 Old friends he had not seen for years, 
 
 And might not meet again. 
 And as they smoked a cigarette 
 
 Over my father's wine, 
 They made a most peculiar bet, 
 
 As you'll think, I opine. 
 
 Our house was half-a-mile, or more, 
 
 Beyond the Churchyard green, 
 And villagers had learnt of yore 
 
 That near that spot was seen 
 The Ghost of a rich nobleman, 
 
 Who, murdered years ago, 
 Still prompt at twelve each night began 
 
 His ghastly form to show.
 
 28 A SPECTRAL ILLUSION. 
 
 So great a hold this legend had 
 
 Upon the village mind, 
 That none were found, however bad, 
 
 Who dared for cash or kind, 
 Inside the Churchyard ever go 
 
 Much after dusk at night. 
 Indeed a " luney" once did so, 
 
 But died, 'twas said, from fright. 
 
 The Sexton, who e'en shared the dread, 
 
 The Church doors left unlocked, 
 Lest he should intercept the dead — 
 
 'Twas said the Ghost once knocked. - 
 Besides, he ridiculed the thought 
 
 Of any man alive 
 Inside the Churchyard being caught, 
 
 Later than four, or five. 
 
 My father's guests had heard the tale, 
 
 And of it now they spoke ; 
 The bulk believed it, and turned pale, 
 
 Father thought it a joke. 
 He said he had a little son 
 
 Not fourteen years of age, 
 Who'd go inside the Church at one, 
 
 For any sum they'd wage. 
 
 The challenge was accepted, and 
 
 My father sent for me ; 
 I thought my mission very grand, 
 
 But not from dread quite free. 
 It was arranged that I should go, 
 
 Ascend the pulpit stair, 
 And bring the Bible back, to show 
 
 I'd really ventured there.
 
 A SPECTRAL ILLUSION. 29 
 
 If I accomplished it, I was 
 
 To have the five-pound bet ; 
 If not, 'twould be my father's loss, 
 
 And I should nothing get. 
 One young companion I might take 
 
 For company, they said ; 
 Then off I went, all haste to make, 
 
 And hurry back to bed. 
 
 I called for a companion, who, 
 
 As might be well surmised, 
 On hearing what I had to do, 
 
 Was frightened, and surprised ; 
 Yet said he could not say me nay, 
 
 To go alone 'twas hard ; 
 And soon we found ourselves half way 
 
 Towards the old Churchyard. 
 
 The road, a dismal one at best, 
 
 Most awful now appeared ; 
 And stealthily as on we pressed, 
 
 Our very shadows feared. 
 Thick clouds above eclipsed the moon, 
 
 High trees o'erhung our path, 
 And seemed to shake as if they soon 
 
 Would crush us in their wrath. 
 
 No human form was there in view, 
 No voice to break the gloom ; 
 
 In dismal moans the wild wind blew, 
 All death-like as the tomb. 
 
 When suddenly the moon shone out, 
 Revealing to our sight 
 
 The old Churchyard without a doubt, 
 
 And A STRANGE FORM IN WHITE.
 
 3<D A SPECTRAL ILLUSION. 
 
 With piercing shriek my young friend rushed 
 
 Away, — I stood alone, 
 My lips were parched, my cheeks were flushed, 
 
 I uttered a faint groan. 
 But suddenly recovering, 
 
 I vainly tried to pierce 
 The darkness, — Fears still smothering 
 
 And struggling to feel fierce. 
 
 Then summoning all courage to 
 
 My aid, I pushed the gate 
 Ajar, and entered, for I knew 
 
 I dare no longer wait. 
 My very flesh all seemed to crawl, 
 
 My hair to stand on end ; 
 As with my hand on the Church door, 
 
 My doom seemed to impend. 
 
 But no, — I thought, — 'twas fancy, caused 
 
 By over-heated brain ; 
 So stepped inside the Church,— then paused — 
 
 And listened once again. — 
 I heard no sound, so boldly walked 
 
 Straight up the aisle, — when, lo ! 
 Through the Church door the white form stalked 
 
 With stately step and slow. 
 
 I paused — it paused — onward I went, 
 
 It slowly moved ahead. 
 On finishing my task still bent, 
 
 Yet filled with awful dread, 
 I clasped the pulpit rails, — then stopped, 
 
 The footsteps stopped also, 
 I felt as if I must have dropped, 
 
 No further could I go. —
 
 A SPECTRAL ILLUSION. 3 1 
 
 Again 1 conquered my alarm, 
 
 Rushed up the pulpit-stair, 
 The Bible clasped beneath my arm, 
 
 To move I hardly dare. 
 How if the murdered noble's ghost, 
 
 In righteous anger craves 
 To punish to the uttermost 
 
 Him who his anger braves. 
 
 In desperation then I stirr'd, 
 
 Ran down the pulpit-stair, 
 The footsteps still in front I heard, 
 
 But I resolved to dare 
 The ghostly power, against it steeled, 
 
 Be it to bless, or damn, 
 When suddenly the moon revealed 
 
 No ghost — but a White Lamb. 
 
 With feelings I can scarcely tell, 
 
 I hastened home that night ; 
 I'd learnt that 'tis not always well 
 
 To trust, e'en your own sight. 
 My father was delighted at 
 
 The spirit I displayed, 
 His friends delighted most in that 
 
 By which I was waylaid.
 
 JOHN DOW. 
 
 John Dow was a Baker of local renown ; 
 
 And by all who knew best, it was said, 
 That however obscure his position might be, 
 
 He certainly was not \\\-bred. 
 
 In his childhood he well knew what poverty was, 
 
 And in manhood he always indeed 
 Found the greater his business — this was a fact — 
 
 The more constantly he was in knead. 
 
 Though he daily distributed bread to the poor, 
 
 Yet by doing so profit he gained ; 
 So this thought ever uppermost was in his mind, 
 
 That a loafer he always remained. 
 
 In religion he was not a Spiritualist, 
 Yet it did sometimes happen by chance, 
 
 That although table turning was not in his line, 
 In his trade he did make a-bun-dance. 
 
 But in jugglery he must have been quite au fait, 
 And I think you will own he was smart ; 
 
 For it frequently happened in course of his trade, 
 Out of sweets he made many a tart. 
 
 But he soon became poor, and tho' bread he'd oft made, 
 
 He experienced the lack of the same ; 
 And as poverty waxed, and he ate his last crumb, 
 
 The more crusty he daily became. 
 
 Then it happened one day as he made up some dough, 
 
 Like a soldier he fell, of a truth ; 
 For he fell at his post, head first into the trough, 
 
 And thus died in the four of his youth.
 
 A SONG, 
 
 respectfully dedicated to the 
 London School Board. 
 
 I'm one of those young urchins whom 
 
 You often see about, 
 For whom the School Board officers 
 
 Are on the sharp look out. 
 I used to roam away from home 
 
 All day, and play the fool ; 
 But 'tis a fact, the recent Act 
 
 Has driven me to school. 
 
 Chorus. — Moods and tenses worry my senses, 
 Adverbs, verbs, and nouns as well ; 
 They only vex me, and perplex me, 
 Right from wrong I ne'er can tell. 
 
 I learn to speak correctly now, 
 
 Or hope to do in time ; 
 But in the grammar I can see 
 
 No reason, rule, nor rhyme. 
 For rules give place in many a case 
 
 To some exception queer ; 
 And many a word is made absurd, 
 
 If you to rules adhere. 
 
 Chorus. — Moods and tenses, &c.
 
 34 A SONG. 
 
 Thus if you catch a cold, you say 
 
 That you a cold have caught ; 
 But if a person you have scratched, 
 
 You'd never say you scraught. 
 You'd speak with sense in the past tense, 
 
 Of fly, to say I flew ; 
 But past of cry sounds all my eye, 
 
 If you should say I creiv. 
 
 Chorus. — Moods and tenses, &c. 
 
 Again, if you a horse should buy, 
 
 You'd say a horse I bought ; 
 But if that horse you were to try, 
 
 You would'nt say I trought. 
 I think you'll own its plainly shown 
 
 The past of sink is sunk ; 
 But if a lady winks at you, 
 
 You would'nt say she wunk. 
 
 Chorus. — Moods and tenses, &c. 
 
 To duty's post if you should stick, 
 
 You'd rightly say I stuck ; 
 But if your finger you should prick, 
 
 You'd never say, I pruck. 
 Or if some time, your gun you prime 
 
 And shoot, you say I shot : 
 But when you've rooted up some plants, 
 It's wrong to say I rot. 
 
 Chorus. — Moods and tenses, &c. 
 
 Once more we speak of thinking, 
 
 And in the past say thought ; 
 But who that has been drinking. 
 
 Would ever say I drought. 
 Or if you please to speak of freeze, 
 
 In past tense you'd say froze; 
 Yet if you'd squeezed a lady's hand, 
 
 You would'nt say I squoze. 
 
 Chorus, — Moods and tenses, &c,
 
 A SONG. 
 
 35 
 
 It's quite correct to say I speak, 
 
 And in the past I spoke ; 
 But still it would'nt sound correct 
 
 To say, I squeak, I squoke. 
 A burning kiss from pretty Miss 
 
 You steal, and say I stole ; 
 But when you heal her broken heart, 
 
 You should'nt say I hole. 
 
 C/ioriis. — Moods and tenses, &c. 
 
 H&2#£ 
 
 /wm"$ 

 
 HOW I LOST A FORTUNE. 
 
 'Twas on my twentieth birthday, 
 
 I retired late to rest ; 
 Quite overcome by mirth — nay, 
 
 'Tis better all confessed. 
 
 Perhaps the wine assisted 
 To lull me off to sleep ; 
 
 Whatever cause existed, 
 I soon found slumber deep, 
 
 But scarce I'd closed my eyelid, 
 Ere jumped I with a shock ; 
 
 Dressed hastily, then, I slid 
 Down stairs, — I heard a knock. 
 
 Cold was the wind that night, as 
 
 At open door I stood 
 Conscious, I was as white as 
 
 A ghost, and chilled my blood. 
 
 There stood a man who told me 
 He'd brought the best of news ; 
 
 An Uncle had left gold, he 
 Said, I should not refuse. 
 
 Scarce crediting my ears, I 
 With him then hasten'd off ; 
 
 And soon, 'mid joyful tears, I 
 Beheld undoubted proof,
 
 HOW 1 LOST A FORTUNE. 37 
 
 Ten thousand pounds was left me, 
 
 A mansion, too, beside ; 
 The news almost bereft me 
 
 Of senses, — not my pride. 
 
 Straightway I gave up living 
 
 As I had done before : 
 Scorned walking, took to driving 
 
 A carriage drawn by four. 
 
 Grand parties I gave daily 
 
 Inviting all the " nobs ; " 
 Lived pleasantly and gaily, 
 
 Treating old friends as " snobs." 
 
 One day I sat expecting 
 
 Gay friends, and many joys ; 
 Just then self recollecting 
 
 I heard an awful noise. 
 
 While vainly speculating 
 
 On what might be the cause, 
 I heard my father beating 
 
 Against my chamber doors. 
 
 Starting, I found, alas ! of 
 
 My hopes, not e'en a gleam ; 
 And when I'd drank a glass of 
 
 Water, found 'twas a dream. 
 
 I found myself in bed, 'wake, 
 
 Just as the night before ; 
 An awful splitting head-ache, 
 
 Father knocking at the door.
 
 EIGHT HOURS AT THE SEA-SIDE FOR 
 HALF-A-CROWN. 
 
 " To Brighton and back for a paltry half-crown," 
 Who would'nt find time just to take a run down 
 And enjoy a few hours of bracing sea air, 
 Right away from the Shop, and its trouble and care ! 
 
 So we quickly resolve the Excursion to take, 
 And for next Sunday morning arrangements we make ; 
 Pack the old carpet-bag with a knick-knack or two, 
 Trundle off to the Station, just as the train 's due. 
 Taking tickets is soon said, but not so soon done, 
 And we've many a struggle before we get one. 
 But at length, when we're seated, all ready to start, 
 With shriek and a whistle we slowly depart. 
 
 Now the joys of Excursionists quickly commence, 
 We are favoured with song, full of noise, if not sense ; 
 With a boisterous chorus devoid of all words, 
 And the parts pitched in all keys, first, seconds, and thirds. 
 Then the babies start off in a terrible fright 
 At the noise, and they bellow with all of their might ; 
 But both women and men have their comfort quite handy 
 In the shape of some bottled gin, porter, or brandy, — 
 Which they freely imbibe, with the object no doubt 
 Of maintaining their strength all the journey throughout. 
 Rank cigars, and foul pipes give a beautiful smell 
 With a number of flavours we scarcely can tell : 
 But if ever you've met with a case so propitious, 
 You'll know that these flavours combined are delicious. 
 Now with patient endurance the journey is done, 
 And at length into Brighton we steadily run.
 
 EIGHT HOURS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 39 
 
 Then we quickly disperse, on a holiday bent, 
 But how strangely diverse are the ways it is spent. 
 Some for boating go in, some resolve on a " dip," 
 Others sit on the shingle and watch for a ship : 
 But the far greater portion believe in the notion 
 Tis best to commence sea-side life with a potion. 
 So they enter the first public-house that they meet, 
 And revive drooping spirits with spirits quite " neat : " 
 And believing the maxim, " go farther, fare worse," 
 They will no farther go till they empty their purse. 
 Being out on the loose, they will try to get tight, 
 So they sit there and drink until train time at night : 
 Though absurd it may seem, yet the fact remains true, — 
 Though the Sea-side they visit, the Sea they ne'er view. 
 
 The return journey home is the crowning delight, 
 Three parts of the folk being awfully " tight;" 
 Some are noisy and quarrelsome, some full of fun, 
 Others sleep — there's no doubt from effects of the sun. 
 But the lane is a long one that has not a bend, 
 And excursion trips come at some time to an end : 
 So at length we near home, and with sorrow, of course, 
 Hear the well-known announcement, " All change : Charing 
 Cross."
 
 BABYHOOD 
 
 Whatever men may say in praise 
 
 Of manhood's blest estate, 
 I'd willingly recall the days, 
 
 Or day, from which I date 
 My entrance on life's busy stage, 
 
 And wish I could remain 
 At just that early baby age, 
 
 Altho' I wish in vain. 
 
 For altogether I maintain 
 
 A baby's life is jolly ; 
 And they who would not babes remain, 
 
 Are guilty of sheer folly. 
 For first of all, there's nothing that 
 
 A baby does, is wrong, 
 He's not accountable for what 
 
 He does, when he's so young. 
 
 He sleeps and eats in peacefulness, 
 
 No matter what's amiss ; 
 While man and womankind caress 
 
 With many a tender kiss. 
 He has full licence to destroy 
 
 All he can lay his hands on ; 
 Because he is his father's joy, 
 
 And some one else's grandson.
 
 BABYHOOD. 41 
 
 He vents his spleen on those he hates, 
 
 And tries to scratch their eyes out ; 
 While every one upon him waits, 
 
 Or else his mother cries out. 
 He keeps late hours, — none complain, 
 
 But deem it quite a treat 
 To smooth his temper, soothe his pain, 
 
 Or warm his precious feet. 
 
 Or if perchance his stomach craves 
 
 For food, it must be got ; 
 For he's a tyrant — all are slaves 
 
 Who cannot help their lot. 
 No politics disturb his mind, 
 
 For neither side he takes ; 
 He cares for neither tide nor wind, 
 
 Unless his stomach aches. 
 
 Such liberties, too, he may take, 
 
 As others are denied ; 
 He kisses ladies wide awake, 
 
 Whom men in vain have tried, 
 Thus babes from many ills are free, 
 
 And have all that is good ; 
 For ease and comfort give to me 
 
 The days of Babyhood.
 
 SELF versus FACE. 
 Extraordinary Action for Libel. 
 
 Once a Man had a row with his Face, 
 And the cause I will quickly unfold ; 
 
 He got sadly at times in disgrace, 
 
 Through the tales which his face of him told. 
 
 He in youth went to school with his face, 
 And although he oft gorged it with fruit, 
 
 It spoke ill of him throughout the place, — 
 Bringing him into sad disrepute. 
 
 No one trusted him, do what he would, 
 From his master, to each little lad ; 
 
 Though he swore he was all that was good, 
 They behaved just as if he was bad. 
 
 He became — as most boys do — a man, 
 But his trouble remained just the same ; 
 
 For his face, of his life, was the ban, 
 And it always gave him a bad name. 
 
 When he sought for employment, alas ! 
 
 Though he had testimonials a score ; 
 He discovered his face would not pass, 
 
 So he always was shown to the door.
 
 self versus face. 43 
 
 When in love it was just the same case, 
 
 For each lady would curtly reply, — 
 " I would ne'er trust a man with that face, 
 
 "Why, I'd rather live single, or die." 
 
 He grew whiskers, and thus tried to hide 
 As much of his face as he could : 
 
 " Such a face was ne'er owned," people cried, 
 " By a man who was up to much good." 
 
 So at length, having heard that his face 
 Had pronounced him a rogue and a beast, 
 
 He resolved to commence a law case, 
 And so prove himself honest, at least. 
 
 So an action for libel he brought 
 
 'Gainst his face — for his anger was keen ; 
 
 And 'ere long it was heard in full court, 
 'Mid excitement that seldom is seen. 
 
 All the plaintiff's best witnesses came, 
 
 Mister Smooth-tongue, Conceit, and Old Tact ; 
 
 They declared he'd a very good name, 
 But his face contradicted the fact. 
 
 In defence, his face pleaded the truth 
 Of its statements, regretting disgrace ; 
 
 But the Jury, through folly or youth, 
 Gave a verdict condemning the face. 
 
 Thus the face learnt with bitter regrets, 
 
 That truth's banner must ne'er be unfurl'd ; 
 
 That whatever its owner's defects, 
 
 It must show a good face to the world.
 
 44 
 
 self versus FACE. 
 
 So it pulled itself long and sedate, 
 
 And it looked sanctimonious and good ; 
 
 And its owner grew gloriously great, 
 As all men who have long faces should. 
 
 Thus for years he was prosp'rous and great, 
 And folks trusted him more than when young ; 
 
 For his face was so long and sedate, 
 It confirmed all the cant of his tongue. 
 
 But a murder at length was found out, 
 
 And the plaintiff was charged with the crime ; 
 
 And the Court, notwithstanding a doubt, 
 Found him guilty of Murder this time. 
 
 He protested his lot was most hard, 
 And the crime he most stoutly denied ; 
 
 But his face was this time off its guard, 
 And his loud protestations belied. 
 
 Man and face ended life both together, 
 
 And their prospects were shorn of all hope ; 
 
 For when he'd run the length of his tether, 
 He arrived at the end of a rope.
 
 AN ODE 
 to a Tax Collector. 
 
 Kind friend ! how well I recollect 
 Thy constant efforts to collect 
 Queen's taxes : when thy well-known knock 
 Has through the house sent quite a shock,— 
 A thrill of pleasure, I should say, 
 Most keen when unprepared to pay. 
 Thy call how I anticipate, 
 And how I grieve when thou art late : 
 Or if, perchance, the day slips by 
 And thou'st not been, how sad am I. — 
 In justice though, I'm bound to state 
 'Tis very seldom thou art late. 
 But oh ! how fleeting is thy stay 
 When I've the cash wherewith to pay : 
 Like angels' visits thine are, e'en 
 So very few and far between.
 
 A NAUTICAL NARRATIVE. 
 
 John Dubbins was a Farmer's lad, 
 
 A plough-boy gay and free ; 
 Until from ploughing land he went 
 
 To plough the open Sea. 
 
 A roving kind of life he loved, 
 And none could stop his whim ; 
 
 He hankered Tor the Navy, till 
 The Navy anchored him. 
 
 But John a pretty damsel loved, 
 
 A maiden fair and slim ; 
 So being fond of courtship, found 
 
 A Ship had soon caught him. 
 
 A parting sad and sore was their's, 
 The maiden swooned with pain ; 
 
 She feared as he was off to Sea, 
 She'd ne'er see him again. 
 
 With agony and bitter pain, 
 From Jane himself he tore ; 
 
 She felt when all his goods were shipped, 
 She worshipped him the more. ' 
 
 And when her John had really gone, 
 The tear drops freely poured ; 
 
 For while she so abhorred the mast, 
 The Master was aboard.
 
 A NAUTICAL NARRATIVE. 47 
 
 So John soon found himself at Sea, 
 
 In senses more than one ; 
 For knowing nothing nautical, 
 
 He naughtily begun. 
 
 For quick promotion he had looked, • 
 
 When he went out to Sea ; 
 But quickly found that corporal was 
 
 His punishment to be. 
 
 A Sailor's life, and biscuits too, 
 
 He found more hard than nice ; 
 So being rational, he made 
 
 Small rations to suffice. 
 
 At length, however, he resolved 
 
 He'd shew true British pluck ; 
 He'd strike for better food : but found 
 
 That he himself was struck. 
 
 A rope's end on his back was laid, 
 
 Awak'ning all his fears ; 
 So much that hard as was his lot, 
 
 It softened him to tears. 
 
 He loved the Sea before he went, 
 
 But never loved it " arter " ; 
 For though the Navy caught a Tar, 
 
 He found he'd caught a Tartar. 
 
 So he resolved that he would make 
 
 His darling Jane his wife ; 
 Instead of fifteen knots an hour, 
 
 He'd tie one knot for life. 
 
 He pleaded for his prompt discharge ; 
 
 The Captain said, with jeers, — 
 Before he was dismissed himself, 
 
 He'd best dismiss his fears.
 
 48 A NAUTICAL NARRATIVE. 
 
 But John bethought him of his Jane, 
 And how his absence hurt her ; 
 
 He'd amply met with his deserts, 
 He'd now be a Deserter. 
 
 So as the Captain ridiculed 
 
 His sorrowful appeals, 
 He thought as he'd so many wounds, 
 
 He'd better take to heels. 
 
 So when they reached the nearest Port 
 For which the Ship was bound, 
 
 He left the vessel safe on Sea, 
 But ran himself aground. 
 
 "6' 
 
 In time he reached his village home, 
 
 And vowed to pretty Jane 
 That now his moorings he had found, 
 
 He'd leave no more again. 
 
 Of hardships he had quite enough, 
 
 And sailing ships beside ; 
 And having been on deck, he did 
 
 Bedeck her as his Bride. 
 
 A wife — a mother — soon she was, 
 Promotion followed faster ; 
 
 For though he'd been before the Mast, 
 He'd ne'er before been Master. 
 
 In leisure moments John reviewed 
 
 His nautical career, 
 And thought a life before the winds 
 
 A whistle far too dear.
 
 A BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 WITH A MORAL. 
 
 At the sign of " The Crown," 
 
 In a small market town 
 
 Of no little renown, there once lived a Miss Brown, 
 
 Whose maternal relation announced on a board 
 
 That for small compensation she well could afford 
 
 To provide man and beast with such shelter and grub, 
 
 As they might, within reason, expect at a " pub." 
 
 Now, I'm bound to assert — 
 
 But hope none will feel hurt — 
 
 That Miss Brown, by report, was a terrible flirt ; 
 
 But " report " often lies, so perhaps in this case 
 
 Poor Miss Brown's great offence was a fair-looking face, 
 
 Which provoked in her own sex great envy — or worse, — 
 
 But in all of the opposite, quite the reverse. 
 
 But whatever the fact, 
 
 Or however attack'd, 
 
 This is certain, — she never admirers lack'd ; 
 
 For her suitors she numbered at least by the score, 
 
 And entrapped each " Commercial " who entered the door. 
 
 But whenever they sued for her hand, though with tears, 
 
 She bestowed it with promptness and warmth on iluir cars.
 
 5° 
 
 A BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 So she made it her boast, 
 
 Though of swains she'd a host, 
 
 That of chances for any there wasn't a ghost ; 
 
 For she cooled like an Iceberg as they became hot, 
 
 And the nearer they drew, the more distant she got. 
 
 While 'twas out of the question indulging a squeeze, 
 
 For they never drew aught but themselves on their knees. 
 
 Thus she conquered no end, 
 
 But would ne'er condescend 
 
 To regard any one of them but as a friend. 
 
 As to marriage, she'd treat the idea with contempt, 
 
 And would vow that from sentiment she was exempt : 
 
 While she'd hook every man who might fall in her way, 
 
 She had no eye to marriage, 'twas only in play, 
 
 So she played hard and fast, 
 
 Till her chances were past, 
 
 And she found herself getting an old maid at last. 
 
 Then she looked right and left for a partner for life, 
 
 But the gentlemen seemed to prefer a young wife ; 
 
 Though a conqueror in youth, she was now left to pine, 
 
 She'd oft been to the glass, she was now left to whine. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Just a word to all those 
 
 Who would multiply beaux, 
 
 But to treat them with levity when they propose. — 
 
 If its fun, yet 'tis cruel, a man's feelings to hurt, 
 
 And be sure a true woman could ne'er be a flirt. 
 
 More than this, bear in mind when you've conquered a lot, 
 
 Many beaux are no use, unless one ties a knot.
 
 JIM SMITH. 
 
 moral ad lib. 
 
 Jim Smith, he was as bad a boy 
 As ever you could know ; 
 
 And always was in sad disgrace 
 Where ever he might go. 
 
 His father was horse-trainer to 
 
 The Earl of Tumbletim, 
 But said he'd ne'er trained asses, so 
 
 He failed in training Jim. 
 
 His mother gave him asses milk ; 
 
 And when he went to school, 
 He gained a medal every term 
 
 For being greatest fool. 
 
 His father soon resolved what trade 
 He would provide him with ; 
 
 A Smith by name, with many a vice, 
 He should be a blacksmith. 
 
 Indentures signed, his Master soon 
 Commenced, young Jim to drill ; 
 
 But though he'd welded him by law, 
 He could not mould his will. 
 
 His conduct, and his temper 
 
 Were most unreliable ; 
 And though he daily pliers used, 
 
 He was not pliable.
 
 £2 JIM SMITH. 
 
 His Master, he believed in striking 
 
 While the iron's hot : 
 Jim's heart was hard as iron, quite, 
 
 But warm it never got. 
 
 At length, his Master did resolve 
 To give him paddy-whack ; 
 
 He found he could not warm his heart, 
 He'd try to warm his back. — 
 
 So with a birch he quick bestowed 
 
 A dozen lashes full ; 
 While Jim, who'd bellows of his own, 
 
 Roared like a raving bull. 
 
 But Donkeys thrashed are Donkeys still, 
 And just as fond of kicking ; 
 
 So Tim was not a deal improved 
 With all his Master's " licking." 
 
 He soon returned to evil tricks, 
 
 But tried a novel game ; 
 His Master kept a Forge, and so 
 
 He forged his Master's name. 
 
 A furnace of affliction he 
 
 Was now in : and what's more, — 
 
 He found himself locked in a cell, 
 The key outside the door. 
 
 By name a Smith he always was. 
 And black in all his ways ; 
 
 And so it happened he remained 
 A Blacksmith all his days.
 
 THE FIRST BABY. 
 
 " Is it a boy, or little girl ? — 
 " Has it dark hair, and does it curl ? — 
 " Now tell me, Nurse, what coloured eyes, 
 " But, goodness ! how the baby cries." — 
 
 What interest first-born babies cause, 
 They win the parents' best applause : 
 No baby e'er was formed so well, 
 The parents' likeness all can tell. 
 Papa e'en takes it on his lap, 
 And feeds the little dear with " pap ; " 
 While friends are all obliged to own 
 So sweet a baby ne'er was known. 
 To all defects, Mamma is blind : 
 Papa, the midnight squall don't mind. 
 
 But when Papa and Ma have ten, 
 How mild each new babe's welcome then. 
 The infant angels quickly fall, 
 And prove but babies after all. — 
 Not that the parents love them less ; 
 But love them with more sense, I guess.
 
 TALE OF A TAILOR. 
 
 In London Town, once on a time, 
 
 There lived a Tailor, whose 
 Misfortune was to have a wife 
 
 He'd dearly like to lose. 
 For though she helped him in his trade, 
 
 Her help he would have waived ; 
 For while she sometimes seamed, yet most 
 
 Unseemly she behaved. 
 
 In binding coats she was expert ; 
 
 Yet often they had rows, 
 Because she never seemed to treat 
 
 As binding, marriage vows. 
 Her husband kept good patterns, and 
 
 He was renowned for fit ; 
 Inconstant fits she often had, 
 
 Her pattern few'd admit. 
 
 For while her maid was hard at work, 
 
 She used to " gad " about ; 
 While he was cutting out a coat, 
 
 Why, she herself cut out. 
 She would not even press new seams, 
 
 But much preferred to roam ; 
 No " goose " she'd use, she was not goose 
 
 Enough to stay at home.
 
 TALE OF A TAILOR. 
 
 He sometimes asked her if she'd 
 
 In linings for a bit ; 
 But haughtily she'd say, it was 
 
 Not in her line one whit. 
 She liked a fancy kind of trade 
 
 Far more than his, she said ; 
 So trimmings being in her line, 
 
 She trimmed herself instead. 
 
 55 
 
 stitch 
 
 And so to work more hard himself, 
 
 He quickly did decide ; 
 Till back-stitching at length produced 
 
 A sharp stitch in his side. 
 Upon the board he had to work, 
 
 A lodging to afford ; 
 His wife did nought to help, and yet 
 
 Claimed lodging and her board. 
 
 He stitched, but yet became so poor — 
 
 He scarce could buy bare thread ; 
 At length, threadbare he did become, 
 
 And wanted daily bread. 
 He'd measured many ; but now failed 
 
 To measure his own woes : 
 He'd oft used shears, and now from sheer 
 
 Exhaustion, life did close.
 
 THE MUSICAL COBBLER. 
 
 Mister Timothy Topp was a Cobbler by trade, 
 And sang bass in the village Church choir ; 
 
 But his part seemed so low, both in music and life, 
 He aspired to something much higher. 
 
 Mending shoes, thought the Cobbler, is well in its way, 
 But then singing is much more refined ; 
 
 A professional singer henceforth I will be, 
 And in future I'll live on the wind. 
 
 He had often had soles for repair ; but he now 
 
 Had a soul for his music alone ; 
 Executio?i he'd studied for years in his trade, 
 
 He would now commence studying tone. 
 
 In a neighbouring town, an engagement he sought 
 
 On the stage of a New Music Hall ; 
 For he quickly resolved he would give up his trade, 
 
 And for music would sacrifice awl. 
 
 So with great expectations he fresh commenced life, 
 
 And of ultimate triumph was sure ; 
 Having shone as an amateur, he would become 
 
 Quite a " star" when he got more mature. 
 
 But his wife soon reproached him with being untrue 
 
 To his promises made in the past ; 
 As he vowed before marriage, with most solemn oath, 
 
 He would faithful remain to the last.
 
 THK MUSICAL COBBLER. 5 7 
 
 Notwithstanding, however, reproaches and threats. 
 From the bench he went on to the boards . 
 
 In his trade he had hitherto used cobbler's thread, 
 But in place thereof now he used chords. 
 
 But a musical course, like the course of true love, 
 
 Cannot always be said to run smooth ; 
 And poor "Topp" soon discovered his soul-stirring strains 
 
 Neither paid, nor yet tended to soothe. 
 
 For his wages he found were so small, that he wished 
 
 He could treble his pay all the while ; 
 And the tenor of his new professional life, 
 
 He found bass, if not vulgar and vile. 
 
 Though in music he found every key, yet the key 
 
 To good fortune, he never found that ; 
 And no matter how sharp were the notes that he sang, 
 
 He was conscious that he had been Jlal. 
 
 So he gave up his crotchet ; he gave up his notes, 
 
 And the loss of his trade did bewail : 
 He had sung his last bar, he would now have a rest, 
 
 For he found 'twas a descending scale. 
 
 Understanding returned — in one sense for repairs, - 
 And he prospered beyond all dispute ; 
 
 He returned once again to the making of shoes, 
 And in time made his fortune to boot. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Here's a moral for all who are fond of a change, 
 
 Changes often are made at a loss ; 
 " They who rest on two stools often fall to the ground," 
 
 And " a rolling stone gathers no moss,"
 
 A WILLING DONOR; or, A SERVICEABLE 
 
 BEQUEST. 
 
 A Fact. 
 
 In Quarrytown, some years ago, 
 
 Lived one who loved his Church, Sir ; 
 So left her something in his will, 
 
 Instead of in the lurch, Sir. 
 He left the Vicar sixty pounds 
 
 Towards his yearly stipend, 
 And for successors after him, 
 
 Until each one should life end. 
 But this condition he imposed, 
 
 That morn and noon each day, Sir, 
 The Vicar twice should read the prayers, 
 
 Or he should have no pay, Sir. 
 
 Said he, some people built a Church, 
 
 Some give a stained-glass window, 
 Some build alms-houses for the poor, 
 
 The halt, the maimed, the blind, too. 
 Some folks present a new Church clock, 
 
 While some men give a steeple ; 
 But I will daily food provide 
 
 For souls of all poor people. 
 And so, henceforth, he did declare, 
 
 Both morn and noon each day, Sir ; 
 The Vicar, twice, should read the prayers, 
 
 Or he should have no pay, Sir.
 
 A WILLING UONOR. 59 
 
 So with the thought of extra pay, 
 
 The Vicar smiled most gaily ; 
 And thenceforth, in St. Peter's Church, 
 
 The prayers he read twice daily. 
 But soon arose an awkward fix, 
 
 For sometimes it transpired 
 That no one came, except the Clerk, 
 
 Or Sexton, who was hired. 
 But still the law remained the same, — 
 
 That morn and noon each day, Sir, 
 The Vicar had to read the prayers, 
 
 Or he would have no pay, Sir. 
 
 Thus many Vicars aged and died, 
 
 And others did succeed them ; 
 But though none came to hear the prayers, 
 
 They daily had to read them. 
 Nor dare they ever miss a line, 
 
 So strictly did the law fit ; 
 For by the terms of the bequest, 
 
 Their pay they thus would forfeit. 
 So year by year each Vicar had 
 
 Both morn, and noon, each day, Sir, — 
 To read each prayer to empty pews, 
 
 Or sacrifice his pay, Sir. 
 
 One earnest Vicar, who observed 
 
 The pews were all old-fashioned, 
 Resolved, by preaching, to convert 
 
 Them into new seats, cushioned. 
 He might, perchance, have gained his end, 
 
 By zeal and strict attention ; 
 But one " Amen" he once forgot, 
 
 And so he lost his pension. 
 No more did Vicars read the prayers 
 
 So earnestly each day, Sir ; 
 For they discovered suddenly 
 
 The service did not pay, Sir.
 
 HE ONLY SQUEEZED MY HAND." 
 
 We met, — he gave me such a glance, 
 And looked so cruelly bland ; 
 
 He begged me first with him to dance, 
 Then gently squeezed my hand. 
 
 When I had danced the first Quadrille, 
 
 A moment he remained — 
 Drew near — imparting such a thrill — 
 
 Again, he squeezed my hand. 
 
 That ev'ning, as he said "good bye," 
 
 I lost all self-command ; 
 As languidly he heaved a sigh, 
 
 And once more squeezed my hand. 
 
 That night my mind was all aglow 
 With visions bright and grand ; 
 
 Well knew I what he meant, altho' 
 He only squeezed my hand. 
 
 So after this we often met, 
 And walked upon the sand ; 
 
 But still no nearer would he get, 
 Than squeezing of my hand. 
 
 And thus my head was in a whirl : 
 
 But now I understand, 
 That men don't always love a girl 
 
 Because they squeeze her hand,
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE FLAGON. 
 
 A SPIRITUOUS LEGEND OF MODERN DAYS. 
 
 A Parson grave, 
 Whose name we'll waive, 
 
 One Sabbath eventide 
 Was taken bad, 
 The truth 'tis sad, 
 
 In vain to read he tried. 
 
 He'd read, I'm told, 
 Good men of old, 
 
 Great spirit oft displayed ; 
 Their tongues of fire 
 Oft did inspire 
 
 With courage, those afraid. 
 
 So he, ere long, 
 In spirits strong 
 
 Indulged, and found his tongue 
 A flaming fire ; 
 But luck most dire, 
 
 That member got unstrung. 
 
 In vain he strove 
 His tongue to move, 
 
 It left him in the lurch ; 
 Until his flock, 
 Beneath the shock, 
 
 Retired from the Church..
 
 62 
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE FLAGON. 
 
 Churchwardens bold 
 Their minds soon told, 
 
 And explanation sought : 
 The Rev'rend Sire 
 Quick did retire, 
 
 And answered them with nought. 
 
 Now Parsons learn 
 To well discern 
 
 'Twixt spirits good and bad. 
 A Parson " tight " 
 Looks hardly right, 
 
 The spectacle is sad.
 
 TOPICAL SONG. 
 Written for a Child. 
 
 I only am a little man ; 
 
 But still I trust I may 
 
 Express my own opinion 
 
 On the topics of the day ; 
 
 To be above all others wise, 
 
 I do not make pretence, 
 
 And though I plainly speak my mind, 
 
 I would not give offence. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Wait till I'm a man. 
 
 Wait till I'm a man ; 
 
 I'll soon shew you what I can do. 
 
 When I become a man. 
 
 I'd set those folks a heavy task, 
 
 Who every duty shirk ; 
 
 And those who live by others' toil, 
 
 I'd quickly set to work. 
 
 I'd make the rich relieve the poor 
 
 Who suffer real distress ; 
 
 And those who labour now the most, 
 
 Should toil a great deal less. 
 
 Chorus. — Wait till, &c.
 
 64 TOPICAL SONG. 
 
 I'd settle Tichborne trials, in half 
 
 The time our Judges do, 
 
 Our law expenses should be less, 
 
 Our laws be clear and true, 
 
 Our poor should not be starved to death, 
 
 While criminals get fat, 
 
 And bold garotters they should have 
 
 A double nine-tailed cat. 
 
 Chorus. — Wait till, &c. 
 
 I'd try to make all masters shew 
 
 More sympathy for men, 
 
 To pay fair wages, treat them well. 
 
 Just as their fellows, then — 
 
 I'd stop the working-classes from 
 
 Uniting to coerce ; 
 
 For Unions breed ill-will, and often 
 
 Lead to something worse. 
 
 Chorus. — Wait till, &c. 
 
 I'd educate poor children ; but 
 
 I'd feed and clothe them first ; 
 
 Though ignorance is bad enough, 
 
 Starvation is the worst. 
 
 I'd sink all politics, and make 
 
 All parties to unite 
 
 In gallantly upholding what 
 
 Is virtuous and right. 
 
 Chorus.— Wait till, cS:c.
 
 ORIGINAL POPULAR COMIC SONG, 
 
 as sung nightly at 
 
 St. Stephen's, Westminster. 
 
 Air,—" I am so Volatile." 
 
 My name is liberal Bill, 
 
 From Lancashire I came 
 To join a Tory Government, 
 
 And make myself a name ; 
 But my politics shift and change 
 
 In every conceivable style, 
 Whether Tory or Whig, I don't care a fig, 
 
 For I am so volatile. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I am so volatile, I am so volatile ; 
 
 Folks think it strange I chop and change, 
 
 But I am so volatile. 
 
 For Oxford I've been M.P., 
 
 And supported Church and State ; 
 University tests and burial grounds 
 
 I respected until of late : 
 But for none of them now I care, 
 
 And you'll see in a little while 
 In the churches a chance of a jolly good dance, 
 
 For I am so volatile.
 
 66 original popular comic song. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I am so volatile, I am so volatile ; 
 
 There's nothing, you see, held sacred by me, 
 
 I am so volatile. 
 
 To educate the poor, 
 
 Just now is all the go ; 
 And School Boards grand, throughout the land, 
 
 Have long been formed you know. 
 But they squabble and change their minds, 
 
 And thus the time beguile ; 
 They never can quite agree what's right, 
 
 They are so volatile. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 They are so volatile, they are so volatile ; 
 
 What with Church and Dissent the money is spent, 
 
 They are so volatile. 
 
 Our Statesmen have for years 
 
 Attempted to redress 
 Old Ireland's so-called grievances, 
 
 And to make her troubles less ; 
 But their efforts have signally failed, 
 
 And always will do, while 
 The " Boys" delight to quarrel and fight, 
 
 And are so volatile. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 They are so volatile, they are so volatile ; 
 They racket and riot, and won't keep quiet, 
 They are so volatile.
 
 ORIGINAL POPULAR COMIC SONG. 67 
 
 You all no doubt have heard 
 
 Of the row in the Church of late, 
 Respecting the Bishop's patronage 
 
 Throughout his episcopate. 
 But he cannot please every one, 
 
 And its useless his making the trial, 
 For the Church is divided, and quite undecided, 
 
 They are so volatile. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 They are so volatile, they are so volatile ; 
 You never will find them long of one mind, 
 They are so volatile. 
 
 I'm out of office now, 
 
 And out of spirits, too ; 
 My party is disorganised, 
 
 And my supporters few. 
 But I'll raise a new party cry, 
 
 Which must succeed, I guess ; 
 I'll vote for female suffrage, and 
 
 I'll alter women's dress. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I am so volatile, I am so volatile ; 
 I'll turn the whole world upside down, 
 For I am so volatile. 
 
 Now friends before we part, 
 
 I would suggest that we 
 Should court success, by cultivating 
 
 Love and unity. 
 Let discordant elements cease, 
 
 And all that's base or vile ; 
 Be firm and true, that folks may own 
 
 You are not volatile.
 
 68 original popular comic song. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Now don't be volatile, pray don't be volatile 
 With all your might defend the right. 
 And don't be volatile. 
 
 AN ENCORE VERSE. 
 
 Now should you be surprised 
 
 To hear that I am hoarse ; 
 Or do you think that I can sing 
 
 All night, as a matter of course. 
 I would willingly sing again, 
 
 As you seem to like my style ; 
 But though its strange, I like a change, 
 
 I am so volatile. 
 
 Chorus. 
 I am so volatile, I am so volatile ; 
 I think it right to say good night, 
 And — dorit be volatile.
 
 THE UNHAPPY ENGINE DRIVER. 
 
 Tom Jones was a policeman once 
 
 Upon a country beat ; 
 But thought his walk in life too slow, 
 
 So quick beat his retreat. 
 
 For though 'tis seldom the police 
 Force drive good men away, 
 
 They thought it was not policy 
 To force Tom Jones to stay. 
 
 A railway engine driver now 
 He would become, he said ; 
 
 For having walked afoot for years, 
 He now would run ahead. 
 
 So, after training for awhile, 
 An engine he did mount, 
 
 And found his ingenuity 
 Soon called into account. 
 
 His change of occupation was 
 Not favoured by his wife — 
 
 She vowed she'd never stay with one 
 Who led so fast a life.
 
 70 THE UNHAPPY ENGINE DRIVER. 
 
 His happy moments now were few ; 
 
 For as at each day's end 
 He left his engine, there he left 
 
 His only tender friend, 
 
 Some say the wheel of fortune turns 
 
 In time on all the same ; 
 He soon had many wheels on him — 
 
 The fortune never came. 
 
 His train came in collision with 
 An engine standing near ; 
 
 By one mishap poor Jones cut short 
 His leg and his career. 
 
 So when his wife was once allowed 
 The dreadful news to know, 
 
 She said he'd had enough of wheel, 
 He'd now have lots of woe. 
 
 Both peace of mind and piece of leg 
 He lost all through his whim, 
 
 For ever since he'd gone^on rails 
 His wife had railed on him.
 
 A DIRE CALAMITY. 
 
 Joe Skilley was the meekest man 
 
 You ever did behold, 
 Until some friends gave up this life, 
 
 And left him all their gold. 
 
 Then in a night he rose at least 
 Three inches in his boots ; 
 
 While in proportion others sank 
 To the level of the brutes. 
 
 Another friend the " bucket kicked," 
 
 Another windfall came, 
 Joe Skilley got so big, you'd hardly 
 
 Know he was the same. 
 
 His dearest friends he now forgot- 
 
 He was a selfish elf — 
 For Joe had quite enough to do 
 
 To mind his precious self. 
 
 Quite isolated he became — 
 But that was not the worst — 
 
 For Joseph grew so big ; at length, 
 He ultimately burst !
 
 A SONG. 
 THE YOUNG MAN OF THE PERIOD. 
 
 I'm one of those fine creatures whom vou often see about, 
 For gorgeous feathers make fine birds, there cannot be a 
 
 doubt ; 
 I serve behind a linen draper's counter all the day, 
 But when at night the shop is closed, I do the grand this 
 way — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 I dress up to the knocker, quite regardless of expense, 
 And then provide myself with a cigar ; 
 The thing I daily study is, how I can look immense, 
 When I promenade and do the lah-de-da ! 
 
 I dress myself in gaudy clothes, no matter how they wear, 
 My necktie is a brilliant red, which makes the people stare ; 
 My foot, tho' large, I squeeze into a boot that's much too 
 
 small, 
 With heels at least three inches high, in order to look tall. 
 
 Chorus. — I dress up, &c. 
 
 You'll see me at the Music Hall, the Theatre as well, 
 And as folks gaze upon me, don't I feel an awful swell ? 
 I stand a glass to all who ask, or drink at their expense, 
 My only aim in life has always been to look immense. 
 
 Chorus. — I dress up, &c,
 
 A SONG. 
 
 73 
 
 With stick in hand, cigar in mouth, I promenade the town, 
 And whistle to each girl I meet as I walk up and down. 
 I sometimes get a " snub," and get my ears well boxed ; 
 
 but there 
 I am not over sensitive, and so I do not care. 
 
 Chorus. — I dress up, &c. 
 
 To smoke and drink, and chaff the girls, is my supreme 
 
 delight ; 
 In fact it's all I care to do from morning until night. 
 And when I'm in my Sunday clothes, I'll swear upon my 
 
 word, 
 Altho' I am a shopman, I am treated like a lord. 
 
 Chorus. — I dress up, &c. 
 
 But though I look so great a swell, I many comforts lack, 
 For all that I possess is what you see upon my back. 
 Altho' at times I glitter, I have less of gold than brass, 
 And those who know me best persist in calling me an ass. 
 
 Chorus. — But still, I dress up, &c. 
 
 
 
 f§x><>«^>
 
 TICHBORNIA. 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 There was a young butcher at Wapping, 
 Who soon became tired of chopping 
 
 Up bullocks for sale, 
 
 So quickly turned tail 
 On his home, where he cared not for stopping. 
 
 There next was a mighty big bragger, 
 Who came from the toAvn Wagga-Wagga ; 
 And, though strange to relate, 
 Claimed the Tichborne estate, 
 And told tales that made everyone stagger. 
 
 There next was a fat man in Newgate 
 Who'd had such a trial as few get ; 
 
 And if you want the same 
 
 Just try his little game, 
 And you'll quickly discover what you get.
 
 SERIOUS POEMS
 
 WYNNIE GRAY ; or, LOVED TOO WELL 
 
 Twas on a bright May morn in fifty-four, 
 The Brookfield villagers were all astir ; 
 The birds their sweetest notes appeared to sing ; 
 The old church bells their merriest peals did ring ; 
 The villagers, with faces bright and gay, 
 Seemed bent on keeping general holiday ; 
 All shops were closed, each from his task set free, 
 Hasten'd towards the Church in highest glee. 
 
 On this eventful day sweet Wynnifred, 
 The daughter of the rector, who was dead, 
 Was to unite in matrimonial bond 
 With him who'd won her maiden heart so fond. 
 
 The Rector, two years since, drew his last breath, 
 And Wynnifred was orphaned by his death — 
 Not friendless though, for many an honest heart 
 Was longing all true sympathy t' impart ; 
 For not alone the rector was beloved — 
 Though all mourned when by death he was removed — 
 His daughter, by her kind and gentle ways, 
 Secured the love and well deserv'd praise 
 Of every villager for miles around, 
 As to her satisfaction oft she found. 
 
 Not many miles from Brookfield was a hall 
 Where dwelt the squire, who had a son, a tall 
 And handsome youth, whose many virtues rare 
 Were as well known as was his face so fair.
 
 8o WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 In childhood he and Wynnifred were both 
 Deeply attached \ 'twas said they plighted troth 
 Before they even knew what it involved. 
 Certain it is when older they resolved 
 To link their fortunes by a life-long tie ; 
 And as the weeks and months rolled slowly by, 
 One wish alone they had, and it was this — 
 A union closer still might crown their bliss. 
 Two years ago young Herbert went away, 
 And well remembered Wynnifred that day, 
 As, mingled with expressions warm and fond, 
 At parting they renewed the oft made bond. 
 While Wynnifred was thus left all alone, 
 Herbert, to learn the art of war, had gone ; 
 And now, the day for which he'd often yearned 
 Had come, and he to Wynnifred returned — 
 The youth developed into manhood quite, 
 Without a single care— the future bright. 
 Nothing appeared to mar his joy that day, 
 As from the church he bore his bride away. 
 
 Twelve months soon passed,'mid ceaseless peace and joy 
 Twelve months of happiness without alloy. 
 No couple loved more fondly than did they — 
 No wife e'er found it easier to obey. 
 Love makes, indeed, obedience a mere form — 
 The mischief is when heads, not hearts, are warm — 
 At least so found they ; and what's more, they proved 
 How sweet it is to love and be beloved. 
 The beauteous Wynnie's bright and happy face 
 Cheered the bright home she was so formed to grace ; 
 But more than this, her cheerful look and smile 
 Were sought and prized by alb for many a mile. 
 Th' afflicted she was ever glad to cheer ; 
 No sick-bed, but you'd find her somewhere near, 
 Minist'ring help, or watching in her turn, 
 Cooling the heated brow should fever burn, 
 Until folks idolized the very ground 
 On which she walked for many miles around. 
 At length her rambles were reduced in length,
 
 WYNNIE GRAY. 8 1 
 
 Her step was less elastic, and her strength 
 Gave way ; then ladies who observe the moon 
 Said a new love tie was expected soon. 
 
 Together sat the happy pair one morn 
 Communing fondly of the days bygone, 
 And hopefully of days yet still to come, 
 When they might realize of joy the sum. 
 The Crimean War was just then at its height. 
 And all that threatened their fond hopes with blight 
 Was the bare chance that Herbert might receive 
 At any moment, prompt command to leave 
 His home and country for the seat of war ; 
 When suddenly they heard the sound afar 
 Of horses' tramp, at most unusual pace, 
 And sat transfixed a moment face to face : 
 But in that moment each heart spoke its fear, 
 Though not a word escaped. — At length, drew near 
 A post boy with a letter. — Neither spake, 
 For neither could its character mistake. 
 Alas ! 'twas true, brave comrades at the front 
 Had e'en too long endured the battle brunt ; 
 And reinforcements now were ordered out 
 To help the country's enemy to rout. 
 Amongst the regiments ordered thus away, 
 Was that in which Lieutenant Herbert Gray 
 Received commission eighteen months before ; 
 And he was summoned now to join the war. 
 A woman's instinct told poor Wynnie all, 
 A woman's spirit recognised the call 
 His country made, as prior to her claim ; 
 She tried to cheer herself with thoughts of fame 
 And glory, which her loved one should have earned, 
 Ere he from war to his own home returned. 
 But with the thoughts of glory, thoughts of scars 
 And wounds, he might perchance get in the wars. 
 Would force themselves upon her ; till at length 
 She dare not think, lest she might lose the strength 
 And fortitude t' endure the parting sad, 
 So struggled hard to bear her lot instead.
 
 82 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 Three days alone before they two must part, 
 The very thought of it near broke her heart ; 
 Three days of silent grief, as her fair hands 
 Packed all that he might need in foreign lands, 
 With here arid there some token of her love, 
 Marked by the falling tears 'gainst which she strove 
 To be discovered when — the time would come — 
 When miles should separate him from his home. 
 Too soon the three short days had quickly pass'd, 
 And the much dreaded hour arrived at last, 
 When those so closely knit must sadly part 
 With bitter pain, as tearing heart from heart. 
 Bravely did Wynnie try to bear th' ordeal, 
 Struggling her sad misgivings to conceal, — 
 Till, as she, closely clasped in his embrace, 
 Felt tear drops falling on her upturn'd face, 
 No longer she her feelings could control ; 
 But swooned beneath the anguish of her soul. 
 
 When she came to, her cherish'd love had gone 
 She was in bed, but was not quite alone, 
 For two strange gentlemen stood watching near, 
 With one or two old friends, to her most dear. 
 What could it mean ? — At length she tried to speak, 
 But could not ; for she found herself too weak. 
 She made a sign for water, which she drank ; 
 And once more swoon'd, and all became a blank. 
 
 Thus days and days of weary watching pass'd, 
 But slowly she recovered strength at last : 
 Reason returned, then hope was entertained 
 All might be well, if she could be constrained 
 To banish thoughts of all that had occurr'd ; 
 When faintly they at length her soft voice heard, 
 Asking what all this meant. Then 'twas she learn'd 
 That he for whom her heart so fondly yearn'd 
 Had really gone : but found now she revived, 
 His little antitype had since arrived. — 
 While she, unconscious, had been near to death, 
 Fler babe was born, a son drew his first breath, —
 
 WYNNIE GRAY. 83 
 
 Yes, at her side, so innoeent and pure, 
 She saw her absent husband's miniature ; 
 And conscious of the treasure she possess'd, 
 Pressing the infant nestling at her breast, 
 She felt she had one more dear tie in life — 
 She was a mother now as well as wife. 
 As slowly to her cheeks the health blush came. 
 She thought of what should be the baby's name : 
 A boy — he should his father's loved name bear. 
 And might he with that father well compare. 
 
 With thoughts like these each early summer day 
 Slowly returned, and sadly passed away, 
 While Wynnie anxiously now looked for news 
 Of him she'd learnt to love, so soon to lose. 
 At length the letter, long expected, came, 
 Telling of dangers, death, and hard-earned fame — 
 Losses severe left many a vacancy, 
 And Herbert had received a Captaincy. 
 Feelings of pride, mingled with those of dread 
 She felt, as she of his promotion read ; 
 And then her mind, in spite of her, recurred 
 To the most dread forebodings which she feared. 
 Yet happy days she felt were still in store — 
 Perhaps as happy as those days of yore — 
 When she might have once more her love at home — 
 By separation e'en more fond become. 
 Weeks grew to months, till summer days had gone, 
 And many battles had been lost and won. 
 Newspapers teem'd with heartrending accounts 
 Of deeds heroic, suff' rings, wounds, and wants- 
 Whole regiments slaughtered, many sick returned 
 To die at home, or have the rest they'd earned — 
 Captives secured, and into prison thrown ; 
 But still no further tidings of her own. 
 She scann'd with eagerness each mention'd name, 
 Unbearable at length suspense became ; 
 Longing for news, yet fearing for the worst, 
 She sat and sighed till bitter tears outburst. 
 Quite overcome with deep anxiety.
 
 84 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 She needed change, yet shunn'd society ; 
 The infant's winning ways now ceased to please — 
 Her sadden'd heart seemed ever ill at ease. 
 At length one day while sitting all alone — 
 With thoughts intent upon her absent one, 
 Pursuing that on which her heart was set — 
 'Mid doubts and fears she took up the Gazette, 
 Which just that moment had arrived from town, 
 And eagerly her eye ran up and down, 
 Scanning the list of captives, wounded, dead, 
 Which daily, since the war began, she'd read ; 
 When suddenly she sprang up with a bound, 
 And shrieking, senseless fell upon the ground. 
 
 Four years had passed — it was the Sabbath morn- 
 The worshippers had from the church just gone ; 
 The youthful Rector hurried down the lane 
 To catch a glimpse of one fair face again, 
 Whose light attended him by night and day, 
 Illumining his path with soothing ray. 
 That lovely face possessed a double charm — 
 So mournful, yet so peaceful and so calm. 
 He overtook her, and in kindly tone 
 Proposed that she should not walk home alone : 
 Then side by side they went, and at her door 
 He bade farewell, but turned for one look more ; 
 Then with a hopeful sigh retraced his steps — 
 His heart quite full, tho' nought escaped his lips. 
 
 'Twas the same Brookfield we have seen before, 
 But not in all respects as 'twas of yore ; 
 The charming face — we scarcely need to say — 
 Was that of her who mourned — poor Wynnie Gray. 
 And she was also changed all could detect, 
 Since those ill-tidings took such dire effect. 
 No more despairing ; she was now resigned ; 
 Once more by kindly actions she entwined 
 Herself around the honest village hearts,
 
 \v\ W'li GRAY. 85 
 
 And her good deeds were known throughout those parts. 
 
 Her love she lavished only on her boy, 
 
 And strove each moment spare to well employ, 
 
 By helping all who needed her relief, 
 
 That she might have no time for morbid grief. 
 
 The Rector — by whom Wynnie had been wed 
 Five years before — had gone ; and in his stead 
 There now appeared a young man full of zeal, 
 Who studied constantly his people's weal — 
 Striving for what would do them greatest good ; 
 And just as anxious for their daily food. 
 The church upon the Sabbath day was filled 
 To hear a preacher both sincere and skilled, 
 Who loved his people and who loved his work — 
 Was both a pastor kind, and learned clerk ; 
 But though affection for his flock was great, 
 A special int'rest he had ta'en of late 
 In that sweet mournful face so full of care, 
 Yet so resigned, that he could hardly dare 
 Express a sympathy he deeply felt, 
 Lest he might cause her heart with grief to melt. 
 He felt for her, however, and she knew 
 He did, though words between them were but few : 
 For sympathy is oft full well conveyed, 
 From heart to heart, the most when least is said — 
 The eye, the gentle tone, the touch of hand, 
 Speak with more pow'r than language can command. 
 Prompt action — not big words — to those in need, 
 While silent sympathy's the best indeed. 
 Thus months pass'd by ; and as each Sabbath day 
 The Rector came to Church to preach and pray, 
 He felt he learnt e'en more than he could teach, 
 For her calm face a sermon seemed to preach, 
 Inspiring him with many a holy thought, 
 And urging him to faith in what he taught. 
 At length, it dawn'd upon him that he felt 
 Within his heart some warmer feelings dwelt 
 Than merely friendship, or a pastor's care, 
 Yet scarce to own it to himself he dare :
 
 86 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 For though he noticed Wynnie Gray appeared 
 
 Most grateful for his friendship, still he feared 
 
 She'd ne'er consent to any closer tie : 
 
 Yet love so urged, that he resolved to try. — 
 
 So, after many and many a careful thought, 
 
 To write a note, at length, himself he brought : 
 
 Declaring what was in his heart and mind, — 
 
 How he had striven from a motive kind 
 
 To conquer what he feared might give her pain ; 
 
 How he had found all hopes of this were vain : 
 
 How he at last resolved, all to impart 
 
 And claim her pardon, if denied her heart. — 
 
 Thus did he write, in gentle words and few, 
 
 Praying for one, if but one, interview. 
 
 Days past. It seemed a week each day he lived. 
 
 At length, a neatly folded note arrived— 
 
 Oh ! how his heart beat, — how he hoped and feared, 
 
 Dreading his fate, the nearer it appeared. 
 
 With trembling hand and palpitating heart 
 
 He broke the seal, and read with painful smart 
 
 A very friendly sympathetic note, 
 
 With deep regrets that she could not promote 
 
 Her pastor's happiness, as he'd desire ; 
 
 But hoping he'd forget her, and look higher.— 
 
 He closed the note, convinced he loved in vain, 
 
 Regretting he, perhaps, had caused her pain ; 
 
 Yet he would see her, and with her concur 
 
 To banish henceforth all such thoughts of her. 
 
 He called on her, and found her deeply moved. 
 
 She told him plainly she but one had loved, 
 
 Though he was dead, her love was still alive ; 
 
 Nor did she care against that love to strive. 
 
 She said she loved her pastor, but as such ; 
 
 And could not love him otherwise so much. 
 
 They parted, — she to bear her long-lived grief, 
 
 And he in holy work to find relief. 
 
 Now, Wynnie, by the loss of him she loved. 
 Was far from former affluence removed : 
 Her income, now comparatively scant.
 
 WYNNIE GRAY. 87 
 
 Scarcely sufficed to meet each daily want. 
 But worse than even this, she heard the news 
 That nearly half her income she might lose- 
 By stoppage of the bank from which she drew 
 The only means of livelihood she knew. 
 This loss too soon was realised ; and she 
 Was now reduced to utter poverty. 
 The Rector, of her sad distress soon heard, 
 And yet to name it to her he demurr'd ; 
 His delicacy made him sore afraid 
 To wound her by the offer of his aid. — 
 Thus months rolled on, and he at length resolved 
 To speak to her, whatever it, involved ; 
 For though to mention it he hardly dare, 
 To see her suffer thus, he could not bear. 
 So, urged by tender pity, and pure love, 
 Once more he press'd his suit, and strove to move 
 Her to accept a home, a heart, a hand ; 
 And vowed that all he had she might command :— 
 Her child he'd ever cherish and maintain, 
 And as his own the little one he'd train. 
 Had she no love to give, none would he claim : 
 But to deserve and win it, he would aim. — 
 She wavered : He, encouraged, press'd his suit 
 Again. Would she reject him ? She was mute ! 
 Thus favoured, he implored her to reflect, 
 Ere she resolved his offer to reject ; 
 Then waiting not to hear a final " Nay," 
 He hurried off, — to call another day. 
 That night poor Wynnie had but little rest : 
 Emotions most conflicting filled her breast. 
 Love for her lost one called for a denial ; 
 To see her dear child suffer was a trial 
 No mother could endure, while she'd the means 
 Of thus removing him to brighter scenes. 
 The Rectory, too, she would be glad to come 
 To it, for it was once her childhood's home. 
 
 Two days had passed. The Rector came again 
 To learn his fate. Poor Wynnie strove in vain
 
 88 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 Against necessity and want's demand. 
 
 My child ! my child ! she thought, and gave her hand ; 
 
 And so once more the village bells did ring, 
 
 And once again the birds commenced to sing. 
 
 The villagers received with boundless pride 
 
 The Rector and his fair, though mournful, bride. 
 
 Two years elapsed, in which the Rector strove 
 T' engender and to merit Wynnie's love. 
 At first it was a trouble sore to her 
 That she no ardent love had to confer. 
 In time, however, his devotion rare, 
 And fond attention to her every care, 
 Kindled within her heart a warm response. 
 She learnt to love, yet not as she did once ; 
 For nothing could efface the memory 
 Of him she early loved so tenderly. 
 
 On summer evenings often she would walk 
 With little Herbert through the fields and talk : 
 Help him with all his studies for next day, 
 Or sit and read while he enjoyed his play. 
 It chanced one evening as she sat alone 
 Beside the river, Herbert wandered on 
 Some distance by himself beside the stream, 
 When suddenly she heard a splash and scream ; 
 And to her horror saw her darling child 
 Struggling against the tide. She with a wild 
 And agonising shriek rushed to and fro, 
 Calling for help, not knowing what to do ; 
 When from behind a hedge, hard by, there crept 
 A man, who rushed up to the spot, and leapt 
 Head first into the stream ; and, ere he sank, 
 Secured the child, and brought him to the bank. 
 Wynnie rushed up to thank the stranger brave, 
 Who'd risked his life her darling boy to save ; 
 But ere she could her gratitude convey, 
 The stranger quickly bore her child away.
 
 WYNNIK GRAY. 89 
 
 He paused not for a moment, but with haste 
 
 Rushed onward to the house. She looked aghast, 
 
 But followed quickly as her strength allowed, 
 
 While down her cheeks the tear-drops freely poured. 
 
 At length she reached the Rectory, and found 
 
 Her boy beside the fire on the ground ; 
 
 But he who'd rescued him could not be seen, 
 
 Nor could she any tidings of him glean. 
 
 The doctor being sent for, soon arrived, 
 
 And little Herbert presently revived : 
 
 'Twas found he had received more shock than harm, 
 
 And there was little reason for alarm. — 
 
 But what about the stranger, where was he ? — 
 
 There seemed about him such a mystery 
 
 That Wynnie longed to find out who he was 
 
 Who'd bravely saved her from a bitter loss. 
 
 How came he there just in the nick of time ? — 
 
 Why hurried he away, as if some crime 
 
 He feared would be detected if he stayed ? — 
 
 And how knew he the house where he conveyed 
 
 His half-unconscious burden ? And why then 
 
 Did he rush off, and ne'er return again ? 
 
 The more she thought of it, the more perplexed 
 
 Did she become, and not a little vexed ; 
 
 For she in common with her sex possessed 
 
 Some curiosity, must be confessed. — 
 
 But something more than curiosity 
 
 Concerning this undoubted mystery 
 
 Did she experience ; tho' scarce she'd own 
 
 Her feelings to herself when quite alone. 
 
 At length upon her it began to dawn, 
 
 That she towards this unknown one was drawn 
 
 By some strange subtle influence, altho' 
 
 She had not seen him, neither did she know 
 
 Aught of him to excite her sympathy ; 
 
 Yet, try her best, she felt no apathy : 
 
 But rather the reverse, when he 'was named, 
 
 As if some special interest he claimed. 
 
 G
 
 90 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 Some weeks from this, Herbert, on coming home 
 One day, told his Mamma that as he'd come 
 Along the road, he met a gentleman 
 Who, stopping him, first kissed him, then began 
 To question him as to his name and age, — 
 His home, his family, and parentage ; 
 Particularly as to his Mamma : — 
 How long she had been married, and how far 
 His memory recalled his early days : 
 And whether now they lived in perfect ease ?— 
 With pretty promises, and many a bribe, 
 Wynnie induced him fully to describe 
 Each word the stranger spake, — what he was like ; 
 And asked if, as he spoke, it did not strike 
 Him he had somewhere seen his face before ; 
 And from his answers, Wynnie felt quite s.ure 
 That he who'd nobly risked his life to save 
 Her child from death, and from a watery grave, 
 Was he who had accosted him that day : 
 But what it all meant, still she failed to see. 
 What caused his int'rest in her and her home ? — 
 What led him in that neighbourhood to roam ? 
 Why was it that he chose to hover near, 
 Yet to disclose himself seemed so to fear ? — 
 From this time Herbert and his unknown friend 
 Often did meet, and both together wend 
 Their way through woods, and by the river side ; 
 Until the boy began to quite confide 
 In his strange friend : while Wynnie, who felt proud 
 Of the attention shown her boy, allowed 
 The frequent meetings, — but yet, strange to say, 
 Her child's companion ne'er came in her way. 
 Nor did she ever catch even a sight 
 Of him, since on that well-remembered night 
 He brought to shore her drowning boy, and bore 
 Him safely home, and then appeared no more. — 
 Herbert and he so intimate had grown 
 Of late, that she resolved she would make known 
 The circumstances to her husband, — yet, 
 On second thoughts, resolved she would forget
 
 WYNNIE CHAN'. 91 
 
 Her foolish fancies, and their unknown cause ; 
 
 For just as drowning men will catch at straws, 
 
 So ladies seldom lack justification 
 
 For any course that suits their inclination. 
 
 What she'd have done at length, we cannot say ; 
 
 But after a long walk, Herbert one day, 
 
 With unfeigned grief, informed her that his friend 
 
 Had told him their acquaintance now must end, — 
 
 That 'twas far better for them both that he 
 
 His little friend's face never more should see ! 
 
 And without giving him a reason why, 
 
 Found it was best to bid a last good-bye. — 
 
 As the child spoke, the tears came to his eyes, 
 
 Betraying grief he could not well disguise. 
 
 'Twas strange how in so short a time, the boy 
 
 Had learnt to prize more than his dearest toy — 
 
 A friend so strangely met, — so different 
 
 In age and tastes : yet it was evident 
 
 That 'twas no childish fancy, but deep love 
 
 'Gainst which the boy so valiantly strove. 
 
 Now Wynnie, it was true, felt some relief 
 
 That he was gone ; but was not free from grief : 
 
 For, stranger as he was, he seemed to touch 
 
 Some tender chord within her breast, as much 
 
 As if 'twas some dear friend whom she had lost, — 
 
 Parting with whom an inward pang had cost. 
 
 Chiding herself for that which folly seemed, 
 
 She tried to quite forget ; but that night dreamed 
 
 That she was strolling through the old Churchyard, — 
 
 When suddenly a well-known voice she heard 
 
 Calling to her by name ; and as she turned, 
 
 Rising from- out the ground — she then discern'd 
 
 Her former husband, who at once drew near, 
 
 And filled her timid heart with dreadful fear ! 
 
 As he in ghastly tones reproached her sore 
 
 For marrying again ;— then straightway swore 
 
 He'd haunt her night and day until she left 
 
 Her second spouse, or was of him bereft. 
 
 Then as she turned away, she recognised 
 
 The stranger with whom she had sympathised !
 
 92 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 With sudden start she woke, and smiled to find 
 'Twas but a midnight fancy of the mind. — 
 How strangely do our waking thoughts combine, — 
 Though most diverse, — and often intertwine, 
 To form connected chains of incidents, 
 Which seem as real as actual events. 
 
 Talking of dreams, in cases without end 
 Do they at times coming events portend. 
 We trust we may not be considered vicious, 
 Nor be reputed as too superstitious, — 
 If we avow at least some slight belief 
 That incidents involving joy or grief, 
 Pleasure or pain, with all coming events, 
 Are oft foreshadowed by presentiments 
 We have in dreams in these days, as of old, — 
 When frequently events were thus foretold. 
 
 But Wynnie's mind was occupied ere long 
 With something more than visions, right or wrong. 
 Her husband, who had long been very ill, 
 At length grew weaker day by day, until 
 Hard work and constant study helped to break 
 A constitution naturally weak : 
 And after he'd for months been failing fast, 
 All hopes of him were given up at last. 
 For months he lingered, and at times 'twas hoped 
 That even yet his ailment might be -stopped : 
 But Wynnie, who was ever at his side, 
 Could not conceal the fact, howe'er she tried, — 
 That slowly, but most surely, day by day 
 Her loving husband seemed to fade away. 
 Thus many anxious days both came and pass'd, 
 Till almost imperceptibly at last — 
 Without a struggle, one bright summer day, 
 In perfect peace the Rector passed away.
 
 WYNN1E GRAY. 93 
 
 The summer had pass'd by with its delights ; 
 Cold winter, with its long and dreary nights 
 Had fairly now set in, and seemed to chill 
 To the heart's core all that it did not kill. 
 A night more cheerless scarcely e'er was known, 
 Around the Rectory the wind did moan : 
 The snow was quite a foot deep on the ground, 
 And Nature appeared barren all around. 
 Poor Wynnic and her son sat side by side 
 Before a scanty fire, and thus tried 
 To banish thoughts of care she keenly felt ; 
 For though still at the Rectory she dwelt, 
 It had been but on sufferance : and now 
 She had to find a home, she knew not how ! 
 Thus cheerlessly she sat in anxious thought, 
 Though contemplation little comfort brought ; 
 When suddenly she fancied she could hear 
 Outside the window, footsteps drawing near. 
 At length there came a knock, and Herbert went 
 To ascertain what the intrusion meant. 
 But presently he hurried back, and told 
 Wynnie that it was his strange friend of old 
 Who had returned, and begged an interview 
 With her, if for a moment only. Who 
 It could be, she was at a loss to know, 
 But scarce had time to think at all, when, lo ! 
 In walked a tall and handsome-featured man, 
 Whose very look proclaimed him veteran. 
 He walked t'wards her, neither a word could say ; 
 It was her former husband, Herbert Gray ! 
 
 Little remains to tell, except to add 
 How Wynnie's sorrowing heart was now made glad, — 
 How Brookfield Hall, which long shut up had been, 
 Was opened amid splendour rarely seen : 
 While two fond hearts, so often made to smart, 
 Were re-united, ne'er till death to part ! 
 
 Herbert explained at length that the report 
 Of his death happen'd thus : — When he had fought
 
 94 
 
 WYNNIE GRAY. 
 
 For some time at the front, he and some more 
 
 Were specially commissioned to explore 
 
 Some inland country, up a frozen stream, 
 
 Where scarce a man was seen, or a sunbeam ! 
 
 How they at length met with privation sore, 
 
 Were taken captive, not pris'ners of war ! 
 
 How after this his captors did confine 
 
 Him as a slave, to work in a salt mine ! 
 
 How, after years of harrowing privation, 
 
 He did escape, and reached a British station ! 
 
 How he, much altered, reached his village home, 
 
 And found his wife another's had become ! 
 
 Then learnt how she had suffer'd,— thought him dead, 
 
 And married but for lack of daily bread ! 
 
 How he, disguised, had hovered near her path, 
 
 And saved both his and her dear child from death ! — 
 
 Had met him often in his daily walk, 
 
 And though unknown, had lov'd with him to talk ; 
 
 But fearing he might soon be recognised, 
 
 At length had self-denial exercised : 
 
 Bidding his son " good-bye," himself he tore 
 
 Away, resolved they'd meet again no more ! — 
 
 How, later, of the Rector's death he heard, 
 
 And, though he knew his wife was free, preferr'd 
 
 To wait awhile ere he himself made known : 
 
 And how, at length, he came to claim his own ! 
 
 When Wynnie prettily asked how he came 
 To be so near, yet not himself proclaim ? 
 He told her, — while in peace he saw her dwell, 
 He'd ne'er disturb her whom he loved so well.
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 Ten thousand welcomes, holy day of rest, 
 The greatest boon by sons of toil possess'd, 
 Refreshing time for body and for mind, 
 Yet, oh ! how little prized by human kind. 
 A privilege so precious well might be 
 Most jealously preserved, and yet we see 
 In latter days a disposition shown 
 The sanctity of Sabbaths to disown, 
 And to transform the ancient holy day 
 Of rest, into the modern holiday : 
 Provide amusements, Entertainments, Balls ; 
 Instead of Churches, open Concert Halls ! 
 
 What means a revolution so severe, 
 O'erthrowing what our fathers did revere ? — 
 Has the community of late, indeed, 
 Become so over-pious, that we need 
 No longer to observe an ordinance 
 Long disregarded both in Spain and France ? — 
 Or, do those nations furnish such sublime 
 Examples of the absence of all crime, 
 And rapid growth in purity and truth, 
 That we wish thus to educate our youth ? 
 Or have they reached so prosperous a state, 
 That we their customs fain would imitate ? 
 
 Nay, rather may we, as a nation blest 
 With Christian privileges, prize the rest 
 Each Sabbath brings, for body and for soul, 
 Our influence exerting to control 
 The growing love of l/cmse, falsely known 
 As liberty. — Improve the moral tone 
 Of the community, full well assured 
 That as a nation we can ill afford 
 To lessen, or relax, in least degree, 
 The safeguards to our Christianity. — 
 Once loose our hold on principles well worn, 
 And England's glory is for ever gone.
 
 RICHES AND POVERTY. 
 
 If each could choose his lot, — be either rich 
 Or moderately poor, — I wonder which 
 The great majority of persons would 
 Select, as most conducive to their good ? 
 We scarce need speculate perhaps for long, 
 For though the love of riches may be wrong, 
 An effort to secure at least a share, 
 Sufficient to remove us far from care 
 As to our future is precaution wise, 
 And for this end a wise man self denies. 
 But imperceptibly this right desire 
 Increases far too often as a fire, 
 Until the victim seems to care for nought 
 But wealth, and learns that all the world is bought — 
 With very few exceptions — and is sold 
 To him who can produce the most in gold ! 
 Thus, daily, many noble men do fall, 
 Until their wealth becomes their all in all. 
 A gen'rous soul by constant love of pelf, 
 Finds all the world soon swallowed up in self : 
 No longer kindly thoughts for other's trials, 
 No more removing careworn looks by smiles, 
 No longer keeping ever open store, 
 Anticipating other's wants no more. 
 One thought predominates,—" Be rich I must, 
 " No matter who I trample in the dust ! " 
 Think you such men are happy in their hearts, 
 That all their " grabbing " ever peace imparts ; 
 That satisfied they ever can become 
 With wealth they have, while others too have some ? 
 As soon try satisfy the sea, or grave, 
 As satisfy such men, whate'er they save. — 
 Whatever troubles lack of wealth may bring, — 
 Whatever pains from poverty may spring, 
 From this sad truth some comfort you may fetch, — 
 A miser is, of all, the greatest wretch.
 
 A FATHER'S LOVE. 
 
 'Twas a weary, weary night of suspense, 
 
 As I sat by my darling love, 
 And I anxiously watched his return to sense, 
 
 For I loved with a father's love. 
 Yes, I loved my dear pet with a love so intense, 
 
 As alone is a father's love ! 
 
 So I sat, and I cooled his heated brow, 
 
 And against ev'ry fear I strove ; 
 For I loved him then as I love him now, 
 
 I loved with a father's love. 
 And I thought there were none but myself knew how 
 
 To love with a father's love. 
 
 Then I prayed that my darling might be restored, 
 That thus the Almighty would prove 
 
 The truth of those pages which oft record 
 That God is a God of love. 
 
 And I knelt, and I wept, and my heart outpour'd 
 To God, who's a God of love ! 
 
 In my anguish I longed for an answer to come, 
 And against bitter fears still strove ; 
 
 For whatever my fears, of hope I had some, 
 I believed in the God of love. 
 
 So daily I looked for an answer to come 
 From the God, who's a God of love !
 
 98 a father's love. 
 
 Night by night passed away, and my darling still drooped, 
 Though I prayed to the Godhead above ; 
 
 I gave up in despair the reply I had hoped 
 To receive from the God of all love. 
 
 I was filled with despair, tho' once I had hoped 
 In my God, as the God of all love ! 
 
 Then the day came at length, but my darling had gone 
 
 To the Mansions prepared above, 
 And I felt myself left in my sorrow alone, 
 
 To mourn with a father's love : 
 For my darling had gone, I was left all alone 
 
 To lament with a father's love ! 
 
 Day by day passed away ; I was filled with my grief, 
 Which nothing appeared to remove ; 
 
 So intense was my sorrow, I found no relief, — 
 I still loved with a father's love. 
 
 And I sorrowed and pined, yet I found no relief, 
 For I loved with a father's love ! 
 
 But since then I have learnt all is done for the best 
 
 By the heavenly Father above, 
 And my darling was gathered thus soon to his rest, 
 
 As a proof of a Father's love ! 
 And tho' firmly that night I my darling one press'd, 
 And allowed but one feeling to enter my breast, 
 I have well learnt since then, and have often confess'd, 
 
 There's a Heavenly Father above ; 
 And that tho' He will answer His childrens' request, 
 He will do it always as to Him seemeth best, — 
 
 For He loves with a Father's love : 
 And whatever He orders is sure to be best, 
 
 For His is a Father's love !
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 Flash ! flash ! flash ! 
 
 The lightning comes with a slash ! 
 
 From heaven to earth, 
 
 In its flight giving birth, 
 To terror both keen and rash ! 
 Strong men are filled with fears, 
 Weak women melt to tears, 
 
 At a power sublime ! 
 
 Which may well, in all time, 
 Touch the spirit whose flesh it sears ! 
 
 Crash ! crash ! crash ! 
 
 The thunders roar with a clash ! 
 
 Majestic, profound, 
 
 Agitating the ground, 
 And shaking the window sash ! 
 Their deep and dismal groan, — 
 Their loud and sonorous tone, 
 
 Speak as loud as they can 
 
 To the heart of man, 
 Of a power that all must own ! 
 
 Splash ! splash ! splash ! 
 
 Comes the rain in a torrent and dash ! 
 
 Till the waters of Noah 
 
 Seem appearing once more, 
 As the streams into mighty waves lash ! 
 It seems to well portray 
 How we are borne away 
 
 By the tide of time 
 
 To an unknown clime, 
 To an endless night or day!
 
 A MOTTO SONG. 
 
 As we journey through life with its ups and its downs, 
 And encounter the world first in smiles, then in frowns : 
 As we're tossed to and fro amid tempest and storm, 
 And are met by misfortune in every form, — 
 Let each one gather comfort, though darkness enshroud, 
 There's a bright gleam of sunshine behind every cloud ! 
 
 When sickness assails us, and friends prove untrue, 
 
 When poverty pinches, and comforts are few : 
 
 Or if schemes fondly cherished with failure should meet, 
 
 And our plans, well matured, only end in defeat, — 
 
 Yet each one may take comfort, though darkness enshroud, 
 
 There's a bright gleam of sunshine behind every cloud ! 
 
 There are some who despair when they do not succeed, 
 
 And give way to forebodings, tho' little they need ; 
 
 Ever fearing the worst, they meet troubles half way, 
 
 And are slow in acknowledging hope's brightest ray ; 
 
 Yet e'en they may take courage, though darkness enshroud, 
 
 There's a bright gleam of sunshine behind every cloud ! 
 
 Then, hurrah ! for the man who goes cheerily on, 
 Taking courage and comfort where others find none ; 
 Though his fortune may change, in himself he is blest, 
 He prepares for the worst, but still hopes for the best. 
 He remembers with comfort, though darkness enshroud, 
 There's a bright gleam of sunshine behind every cloud !
 
 THE TRAITOR'S KISS. 
 
 LINES UPON THE BETRAYAL OF OUR LORD. 
 
 The night is dark ; black clouds o'erhead 
 Frown on the earth in wrath most dread ; 
 No ray of light relieves the gloom ; 
 But all is deathlike as the tomb. 
 See there a form bowed down by care, 
 Now weeping, now engaged in prayer, 
 In anguish as the Saviour treads ; 
 The very trees hang down their heads 
 As if, while weak disciples sleep, 
 All nature for her Lord must weep. 
 
 But hark ! Those footsteps ! Who draws nigh ? 
 An open enemy ? A spy ? — 
 Nay, a disciple ; and be sure 
 He must be true who feeds the poor. 
 But why that multitude of knaves 
 Who follow him with swords and staves ? 
 No peaceful mission brings them here ; 
 Their deep design is soon made clear, 
 For Judas, with malignant smile — 
 He who had dipp'd the sop awhile, — 
 Draws near ; but deepest treach'ry this ; 
 Betrays his master with a kiss !
 
 102 THE TRAITORS KISS. 
 
 A kiss ! — the sign of fondest love — 
 Pure, changeless as the saints above — 
 A recompense for many a woe, 
 Confirming many a bond below : 
 Affections token then, as now, 
 The seal of many an earnest vow : 
 When prostituted thou'rt become, 
 Love's ardent tongue may well be dumb. 
 
 A kiss ! — which speaks from heart to heart 
 Volumes of love when dear ones part ; 
 Or when they meet renew the bond, 
 As words could not, however fond, 
 A reconciliation sign, 
 Touching those feelings most divine. 
 Base, deep-dyed miscreant, who could use 
 That token only to abuse ? 
 
 Just indignation all must feel, 
 And that it should be so is well ; 
 But tho' unpleasant be the task. 
 The simple question let me ask — 
 If Judas' treach'ry cause a start, 
 What think you of his counterpart, 
 Produced most accurately now ? 
 Though some may doubt the truth, I trow. 
 Though cultivation has refined 
 Man's crimes, as well as heart and mind, 
 Think you no Judases remain, 
 The Christian character to stain ? 
 Alas ! beneath religion's guise 
 Full many a treach'rous heart still lies ; 
 While many an action done amiss 
 Is covered by the Traitor's Kiss.
 
 A SONG. 
 
 IN YONDER GLEN. 
 
 In yonder glen my childhood's days 
 
 In happiness were pass'd, 
 Surrounded by hope's brightest rays, 
 
 Too bright, indeed, to last. 
 With little Millie oft I strolled 
 
 Alone at eventide ; 
 My childish heart did oft unfold, 
 
 And she did well confide, 
 We knew no cares, nor troubles then ; 
 But all was peace in yonder glen. 
 
 From yonder glen in youth I went 
 
 To travel far and wide ; 
 To gayer scenes my footsteps bent, 
 
 And other friends I tried ; 
 But in the world I found no charm 
 
 That well could be compared 
 With all that childhood's peaceful calm, 
 
 Which little Millie shared — 
 And so I fondly yearned for when 
 I might return to yonder glen. 
 
 So years rolled on, and I returned 
 
 To childhood's happy home : 
 No longer I for changes yearned — 
 
 No longer cared to roam. 
 And once again my greatest charm 
 
 Is found at eventide, 
 With little Millie on my arm ; 
 
 But now she is bride — 
 And all is peaceful now, as then, 
 As years roll on in yonder glen.
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 OF A DEPARTED INFANT SON, AGED 9 MONTHS. 
 
 " He shall gather the lambs with his arm •" 
 " No man shall pluck them out of his hand." 
 Full enjoyment of bliss and sweet calm 
 Await them in the heavenly land. 
 
 But one summer had passed o'er his head, 
 Yet he'd won all our tenderest love ; 
 He was gently one night put to bed, 
 To awake in the mansions above. 
 Scarce a struggle shewed token of pain, 
 As he silently drew his last breath ; 
 But fond parents for life look'd in vain — 
 They discovered the cold hand of death. 
 
 So the darling passed gently away ; 
 And far be it from us still to weep : 
 We shall join him in glory one day — 
 He's not dead, he has but gone to sleep.
 
 STARVED! 
 
 A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 On a cold frosty morn, 
 
 By the side of the road, 
 Stood a boy, — whose sad, worn, 
 
 Haggard face clearly shewed 
 Unmistakable signs 
 
 Of disease far advanced, 
 Which so oft undermines, 
 
 Ere to check it you've chanced. 
 
 He was clothed in rags, 
 
 Very poorly was shod, 
 His sole bed was the flags, 
 
 He had few friends but God 
 Eyes sunken and deep, 
 
 Cheeks holloAv and flushed : 
 He had long ceased to weep, 
 
 All hope appeared crushed ! 
 
 Near his side on the ground 
 
 Stood his mother in tears, 
 While a crowd gather'd round, 
 
 And she told them her fears ;- 
 That her boy was fast sinking 
 
 With spasms of the heart ; 
 And she could not help thinking 
 
 He soon would depart. 
 
 H
 
 1 06 STARVED ! 
 
 No professional tramp 
 
 Was the boy I've described ; 
 There was nothing to stamp 
 
 Him as such, — 'twas inscribed 
 On his face and his features — 
 
 He'd " seen better days : " 
 As distinct from the creatures 
 
 Who beg — " 'cos it pays." 
 
 The widow, — for such 
 
 She had many years been, — 
 Put a finishing touch 
 
 To this heart-rending scene ; 
 She had few kin or kith, 
 
 And, — what's far sadder still,— 
 Said she'd "nothing wherewith 
 
 " The boy's belly to fill." 
 
 There are few who suspect, 
 If they even reflect, 
 At this time of the year 
 How much sorrow is near. 
 How misfortune most dire ! 
 Cold homes without fire, 
 Bring to scores their last breath, 
 And the cold hand of death ! 
 
 Christian friend ! let me ask, 
 What is your special task ? 
 As the labourers are few, 
 What have your hands to do ? 
 To help others be sure 
 
 Every one can afford : 
 " He that gives to the poor, 
 
 Only lends to the Lord ! "
 
 THE SONG OF A CLERK. 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A Clerk in threadbare garments sat, 
 
 Driving a (mill for his bread. 
 Scratch ! scratch ! scratch ! 
 
 Not a bit of his task dare he shirk 
 While in a dull, monotonous tone, 
 
 He sang the " Song of a Clerk." 
 
 Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 From the cock-crowing hours of morn ; 
 And work, work, work, 
 
 Till the following day's near its dawn. 
 As well to be a slave 
 
 In a South American State, 
 As dig with a quill my grave 
 
 By working early and late. 
 
 Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 Till my head is ready to split ! 
 Work, work, work, 
 
 Till for everything else I'm unfit. 
 Invoices, papers, and books, 
 
 I manipulate many a ream ; 
 Until careworn and haggard my looks, 
 
 I finish my work in a dream !
 
 io8 
 
 THK SONG OF A CLERK. 
 
 Oh ! the brotherhood of man ! 
 
 It appears to exist but in name ; 
 For criminals no harder work, 
 
 And suffer far less shame. 
 Scratch, scratch, scratch ! 
 
 If the world in its coldness but knew 
 That I'm writing each day with the self-same strokes. 
 
 My invoice and death-warrant, too ! 
 
 A mechanic is far better paid, 
 
 And can dress in less costly attire ; 
 He has comforts, though rough, while poor I 
 
 Often lack victual, clothing, and fire. 
 Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 Till my poverty seems to enthral ; 
 And a labourer's lot seems a catch, 
 
 For his wages are rarely so small !
 
 THE POOR CLERK'S APPEAL. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a class of men, 
 
 Whose troubles few know — fewer still defend ; 
 
 Whose sad misfortune 'tis to use a pen, 
 And on its hard-earned wages to depend. 
 
 We are not grumblers, yet, who'd stop the cry 
 Of him who 'gainst odds desperately fights ? 
 
 We work hard, and to be contented try, 
 
 Yet though we write, we cannot get our rights. 
 
 Our pay is small, and though provision's dear, 
 
 We've made no agitation in the past ; 
 We've never joined trades unions, though we fear 
 
 The parish union we may join at last ! 
 
 We have to dress well, though of show not fond, 
 E'en while our want of food at home o'erpowers, 
 
 With men of all conditions correspond, 
 
 Few whose condition corresponds with ours. 
 
 They who dress worse, oft say of us, " I'll bet 
 " That man don't pay his way, he's a big rogue." 
 
 No want of principle leads us in debt, 
 
 But want of cash, alas ! too much in vogue. 
 
 We make out bills, keep books, collect accounts. 
 Despatch no end of goods, and write the dockets ; 
 
 While through our hands pass very large amounts, 
 Its very small ones pass into our pockets.
 
 110 THE POOR CLERK'S APPEAL. 
 
 To try to make ends meet in time we cease, 
 Finding we really cannot pay our way ; 
 
 For though our families each year increase, 
 We seldom get an increase in our pay. 
 
 By education gentlemen we are, 
 
 As such the world expects us all to pass ; 
 
 Subscribe to this and that, with nought to spare, 
 Though spare our income 's always been, alas ! 
 
 An artisan on thirty " bob " a week 
 
 Is far more happy, oftentimes, than we : 
 
 The world's opinion he need never seek, 
 To dress as he can best afford he's free. 
 
 No pride e'er robs his pocket or his purse ; 
 
 'Tis little he pays out — more he'll receive ; 
 While cruelly hard we have to live, what's worse. 
 
 Whene'er we die we've nought but debts to leave. 
 
 Hard work and under-pay, we do contend, 
 
 In this good Christian land should be no more ; 
 
 We help make fortunes, which our masters spend — 
 Our fortune always has a mis before.
 
 In the year 1873 an official of the London and North Western Rail- 
 way Company, stationed at Burton-on-Trent, which is celebrated for its 
 breweries, committed a most ingenious fraud, by which means he secured 
 over ,£3,000, and for which he was prosecuted and convicted. When 
 receiving bills of exchange in payment of accounts due to the Company, 
 he appropriated them to his own use, paying them into a private bank- 
 ing account which he opened, and remitted forged fac-similes to the 
 Company's cashier, afterwards meeting the dishonoured forgeries which 
 were sent to him to obtain cash from the acceptor, by further cash 
 raised by a subsequent such fraud. The circumstances suggested the 
 following lines : — 
 
 *s 
 
 AN UNACCOUNTABLE TRANSACTION. 
 
 Johnny Sloper was agent at Burton-on-Trent 
 
 For the L. and N.W.R. ; 
 With the pay he received he was scarcely content : 
 
 There are very few persons who are. 
 
 " Amongst Brewers," he said, " men are handsomely paid, 
 " But I scarce can buy clothing and food ; 
 
 "While I daily see fortunes by brewing are made, 
 " Over troubles alone do I brood. 
 
 " On the Railway you seldom obtain a good berth, 
 " Though for years in the service you stop : 
 
 " Get few steps in advance, tho' unquestioned your worth, 
 " But in breweries many a hop" 
 
 So he asked for promotion, but got this reply, — 
 " Application received, but ' no go ! ' 
 "Though the price of provisions and rent may be high, 
 " Yet the dividends still thev are low."
 
 T I 2 AN UNACCOUNTABLE TRANSACTION. 
 
 But poor Sloper resolved without further delay 
 He would try what some bounce would effect ; 
 
 As Directors refused him an increase in pay, 
 He would pay his own increase direct. 
 
 So when " Bills " for the Railway accounts he received, 
 
 He put forgeries into the till ; 
 And when persons paid him with a Bill of exchange, 
 
 Paid himself by exchanging the Bill. 
 
 And he prosper'd, — at least seemed to do pretty fair, 
 Till the Company had some good grounds 
 
 For suspecting he'd played an appropriate air 
 To the tune of three thousand odd pounds. 
 
 So they charged him with forgery, when he confess'd 
 That he had, though with bitter regrets, 
 
 Thought that as he could not pay his Bills, it was best 
 That the "Bills" should be made pay his debts. 
 
 The Directors resolved that the case was so sad, 
 That his service with them must now ceas e ; 
 
 As he'd yielded himself to a policy bad, 
 He must now yield himself to police ! 
 
 So he learnt by his fate that when principle's gone, 
 Man's best interest has vanish'd as well ; 
 
 For the hopes of a rogue are of all most forlorn, 
 And his prospects are only a cell !
 
 A MOTTO SONO. 
 If you can't do him good, don't do him harm. 
 
 Music by Fisher Simpson. Published in Pillow's Portfolio, by Pillo~,i> 
 and Co., Liverpool and Manchester. 
 
 A few copies in sheet music may be obtained from the Author and Composer, 
 Stafford Place, Rutland Street, Leicester. Pricels. 6d. 
 
 There's a motto that all would do well to regard, 
 
 Though the task may appear not unfrequently hard, 
 
 It will soften life's troubles, and lighten each care, 
 
 And will shower around us rich blessings and rare. 
 
 If a friend's reputation is being attack'd, 
 
 Or his memory censured for virtues he lacked, 
 
 Remember a maxim, in which there's a charm, 
 
 " If you can't do him good, why then, don't do him harm." 
 
 There are some folks whose hearts and whose minds are so 
 
 small, 
 That they glory and gloat over those who may fall ; 
 But to help those in need 'tis but little they care, 
 While they circulate scandal whenever they dare. 
 But whenever you hear ill-report of a friend, 
 Be not hasty to listen — but quick to defend ; 
 And remember this maxim, in which there's a charm, 
 " If you can't do him good, why then, don't do him harm." 
 
 Then three cheers for the man who true sympathy shews. 
 
 And can feel for another's misfortune and woes ; 
 
 Who'll help those in need with a hearty good will, 
 
 And a neighbourly duty is glad to fulfil. 
 
 Who will shun all who pilfer another's good name, 
 
 Or are jealous of other's good fortune and fame ; 
 
 Who remembers this maxim, in which there's a charm, 
 
 " If you can't do him good, why then, don't do him harm.''
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 OF 
 THE LATE MR. COUNCILLOR JOHN BARRS. 
 
 Pause for a while, life's business suspend, 
 To mourn the loss of one more faithful friend ! 
 Who has most suddenly been called from earth, 
 And bear a last sad tribute to his worth. 
 In life he sought, — though oft misunderstood, 
 With deep solicitude, the public good : 
 With firmness did his principles maintain, 
 Yet never willingly inflicted pain. 
 His noble sense of duty oft impell'd 
 Him boldly to maintain the views he held ; 
 Yet fairness, — for his firmness made amends, 
 Political opponents were his friends. 
 
 In morals he was blameless ; yet was stirred 
 
 To kindly sympathy to'ards such as erred. 
 
 How many for whose good he worked, and fought, 
 
 Will miss his cheering counsel and support ? 
 
 Full early, ere his laurels all were won, 
 
 The sudden warning came — " thy work is done." 
 
 And he was gone, as he began to loom, 
 
 E'en as a flower pluck'd in fullest bloom ! 
 
 A star eclipsed with lustre at its height, 
 
 A warrior fallen in the thickest fight ! 
 
 Yet, let us not feel downcast, nor depress'd, 
 
 He is not dead, — he has but gone to rest!
 
 DESTITUTE ! 
 
 Ragged and torn, 
 Wretched and worn, 
 Eyes sunken deep, 
 Long ceased to weep. 
 Cheek hollow and flushed, 
 Hope has been crushed. 
 Disease creeps by stealth, 
 Where once there was health ! 
 
 Though but a boy, 
 Lost to all joy, 
 Laden with care, 
 Full of despair ! 
 Near broken-hearted, 
 All comfort departed ; 
 First and the last 
 Of friendships are past 
 
 Without a home, 
 Now left to roam, 
 Stricken by cold 
 And sorrows untold ! 
 Hail, snow, and rain, 
 Increasing the pain : 
 Heart beating fast, 
 Till it ceases at last !
 
 1 1 6 DESTITUTE. 
 
 Wanting a meal, 
 Yet scorning to steal ; 
 Honest, but poor, 
 Yet turned from the door ! 
 None to receive him, 
 Few will believe him ; 
 Many to chide, 
 And often deride ! 
 
 Onward he goes, 
 Borne down by woes ; 
 Walking the streets, 
 No friend he meets : 
 Until, at length, 
 Losing all strength, 
 He closes his eyes, — 
 He sinks, and he dies ! 
 
 Dies of starvation, 
 Want, and privation ! 
 None give a helping hand, 
 Though in a Christian land ! 
 Money is squandered, 
 Yet, he has wandered 
 Shoeless, and penniless, 
 Wanting both food and dress ! 
 
 Dies ! there are none to save 
 Him from a pauper's grave ! 
 No one to sympathise, 
 None e'en to close his eyes ! 
 Where is the love of man, 
 Helping where e'er he can ? 
 Boasted prosperity ! 
 Christian sincerity !
 
 DESTITU1 E. 
 
 1 l 
 
 Thus, sadly, drearily. 
 Many both live and die ! 
 Losing their strength and health, 
 Starved in the midst of wealth ! 
 Too proud to beg a meal, 
 Too honest far to steal ; 
 Cursing propriety, 
 Shaming society !
 
 RIPTON MANOR HOUSE. 
 A Tragedy. 
 
 'Twas on a frosty winter's night, 
 
 Just at the time of grouse, 
 A fashionable party met 
 
 At Ripton Manor House. 
 Just twelve months since young Squire Holt 
 
 Had reached maturity ; 
 And also had inherited 
 
 His Father's property. 
 
 Festivities were well maintained, 
 
 And all were gay and bright ; 
 No person left the festive scene 
 
 Till very late that night. 
 At length the party all withdrew, 
 
 The Manor House was closed ; 
 And all appeared as calm within. 
 
 As well might be supposed. 
 
 But in that quiet midnight hour 
 
 An awful deed was done ! 
 Yet, who the culprit was, has ne'er 
 
 Been known to mortal one. 
 Next morning, in his bed was found 
 
 The Squire, — but he was dead ! 
 A ghastly razor wound appeared 
 
 Upon his youthful head !
 
 RIPTON MANOR HOUSE. tig 
 
 The news soon spread, and filled with dread 
 
 The neighbourhood around ; 
 But as to who had done the deed. 
 
 No clue was ever found. 
 A coroner and jury met, 
 
 But scarcely could decide ; 
 At length, for lack of evidence, 
 
 Pronounced it " Suicide ! " 
 
 Police investigation was 
 
 For many months pursued ; 
 But still, with deepest mystery, 
 
 The subject was imbued. 
 A brother and two sisters slept 
 
 Within the house that night, 
 But neither could they throw upon 
 
 The subject any light. 
 
 One feature in the case appeared 
 
 With strong suspicion fraught ; 
 The murdered man when found, was dress'd 
 
 In a shirt newly bought : 
 While that in which he went to bed 
 
 Was no where to be found ! 
 Neither the instrument, with which 
 
 Was made the fatal wound ! 
 
 The Manor House then pass'd into 
 
 The younger brother's hand ; 
 With property for miles around, 
 
 And valuable land. 
 But from that night the brother ne'er 
 
 Was known to smile again ; 
 Nor did he any intercourse 
 
 With fellow-men maintain !
 
 120 RIPTON MANOR HOUSE. 
 
 He lived a sad, reclusive life, 
 
 And was approached by none ; 
 While all his former friends he seemed 
 
 Most rigidly to shun. 
 The Manor House, so long renowned 
 
 For gaiety and life, 
 Was after years the subject of 
 
 A bitter legal strife ! 
 
 The land became neglected, and 
 No crops upon it grew ; 
 
 The fruit was blighted yearly, and 
 The timber none would hew. 
 
 All flowers seemed to wither, and 
 The grass was never green ; 
 
 The corn grew up so sickly, that 
 It hardly paid to glean ! 
 
 But not alone the land seemed curs'd, 
 
 Tho' once so fresh and fair ; 
 The mournful Master never had 
 
 A child, so had no heir. 
 The Sisters also childless died, 
 
 And thus 'twas clearly known, — 
 That at the brother's death, th' Estate 
 
 Would pass unto the Crown. 
 
 At length, — one morning, just ten years 
 
 From that sad, festive night, 
 The servants at the Manor House 
 
 Were filled with awful fright! 
 Finding their Master did not rise 
 
 As usual from bed, 
 They burst his chamber door, and found 
 
 Him lying cold and dead !
 
 KIPTON MANOK HOUSE. 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 Before him lay a razor, stained 
 
 With Mood for many years : 
 The missing shirt was also there, 
 
 Covered with bloody smears ! 
 'Twas thought these ghastly tokens 
 
 Of the crime he did commit ; 
 He'd been inspecting overnight. 
 
 And fall'n dead in a fit ! 
 
 F 
 
 1 
 
 w <d5 
 
 
 e 
 
 m^A 

 
 THE MISER. 
 
 Gold ! gold ! gold ! 
 
 'Tis the cry of the young and the old 
 
 Gold! gold! gold! 
 
 Tho' possessing now riches untold : 
 'Tis the midnight dream 
 And the daylight theme, 
 
 And for it all the world may be sold. 
 
 Save ! save ! save ! 
 
 Though it bring a man down to the grave. 
 
 Save ! save ! save ! 
 
 To his gold he becomes but a slave : 
 
 He will stint and screw, 
 
 A mean action will do, 
 And will often become a knave. 
 
 Fret ! fret ! fret ! 
 
 From the morning till midnight he'll sweat 
 
 Get ! get ! get ! 
 
 All is fish that comes into the net : 
 He'll coax and cajole, 
 And would sell his own soul 
 
 For the passion by which he's beset.
 
 THE MISER. 123 
 
 Hoard ! hoard ! hoard ! 
 
 Not a pleasure will e'er he afford : 
 
 Hoard ! hoard ! hoard ! 
 
 Until by all his fellows abhorr'd. 
 
 And the love of pelf 
 
 Kills respect for self, 
 And a friend he will even defraud. 
 
 Self! self! self! 
 
 He becomes but a greedy elf ; 
 
 Self! self! self! 
 
 Though all others be put on the shelf. 
 
 He begrudges his pence 
 
 Till he loses all sense, 
 And is wrapt up in love of pelf. 
 
 Gold ! gold ! gold ! 
 
 Tis the cry of the young and the old ; 
 
 Gold ! gold ! gold ! 
 
 Tho' all comforts he has to withhold ! 
 
 Himself he'll deny, 
 
 Till he pine and die. 
 And in death he still grasps his gold.
 
 AN ACROSTIC 
 
 FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 A dieu to the last of the year that is past, 
 
 H ere midst feasting and fun 
 
 A new year has begun, 
 
 P arted friends meet again, and unite in one strain, 
 
 P leasant hours are pass'd, 
 
 Y et e'en they cannot last ! 
 
 N ow away with the flask, 
 
 E very one to his task, 
 
 W ith a hearty good will, every duty to fulfil. 
 
 Y ear by year bring you joy, 
 E ver free from alloy : 
 
 A nd where e'er you may wend, 
 R ichest blessings attend. 
 
 T rusty friends may you find, both forgiving and kind, 
 O verlooking offence, shewing sound common sense. 
 
 Y et, if comforts are few, 
 
 O r your friends prove untrue, 
 
 U nder bitterest care, never yield to despair. 
 
 A nd life's task being done, 
 
 L et us, every one, 
 
 L eave, far better than fame, a pure, unsullied name.
 
 ACROSTICS. 
 
 M odest in manner, and most kind in heart, 
 
 I mage of grace and virtue every part, — 
 
 N ot prone to pride, but pleasing in her ways, 
 
 N one know her well, but love to speak her praise. 
 
 I f any wish to know this lady's name, 
 
 E xtract six letters, and you have the same. 
 
 J EALOUS of rights, she guards them religiously ; 
 
 A ctive in habit, she works most prodigiously : 
 
 N ever says die, while a hope yet remains, 
 
 N o one more readily passion restrains. 
 
 E agerly works to accomplish her ends, 
 
 T rue to her word, ever firm to her friends ; 
 
 T rusted by many, betrayer of none, 
 
 E ver kind to the poor, for whom much she has done. 
 
 C ruel thou art to all men thou dost meet, 
 
 L oving to bring them suppliant at thy feet ; 
 
 A nxious to win their love, only to treat 
 
 R oughly their broken hearts ! — Mind you don't, Miss, 
 
 A time too often play a game like this. 
 
 K indness itself when pleased, 
 
 A ngel, if she's not teased ; 
 
 T read on her toes, and you'll find out 
 
 E xactly how she makes a pout.
 
 126 ACROSTICS. 
 
 B right may thy future prospects ever be, 
 
 E moluments most lavish thy reward ; 
 
 N o failures, nor reverses, follow thee, 
 
 J ust praise, well earned, may all to thee accord. 
 
 A ccustomed to prosperity, through life 
 
 M ay you with grace, humility preserve, 
 
 I ncrease in peace, avoid all needless strife, 
 
 N ever receive aught less than you deserve. 
 
 C ourted by all whose friendship you should prize, 
 
 R ich in good works, be virtuous and wise : 
 
 I ndulgent, helping others as you rise. 
 
 S hould fortune smile, and friends be great and true, 
 
 P roof may you be 'gainst flattery and praise : 
 
 I f fortune frowns, and friends are poor and few, 
 
 N ever despair, — but hope for better days. 
 
 S aving never, 
 P aying ever, 
 E mpty headed, 
 N ever dreaded. 
 D aily swindled 
 T ill have dwindled 
 H is resources. — 
 R acing horses 
 I f he touches 
 F inds his ruin 
 T hickly brewing.
 
 A TOPICAL VERSE, 
 
 written for the pantomime, 1874, 
 
 Theatre Royal, Liverpool, 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OE DR. LIVINGSTONE. 
 
 I would I had the power to 
 
 Restore the dead to life ; 
 With all its joys and usefulness, 
 
 Without its cares and strife. 
 I'd bring back many gallant men 
 
 Who this night breath no more ; 
 We still should have a LIVINGSTONE 
 
 In eighteen-seventy-four. 
 
 E. LAMB, PRINTER, GRANBY PLACE, LEICESTER.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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