Who when old Cam was almost dead, His glory almost mouldy, Replaced the laurels on his head? Sweet Echo answers—"Goldie." Who was our Seven of mighty brawn As valiant as a lion? Who could he be but strapping Strachan, Australia's vigorous scion?

Who rowed more fierce than lioness, Bereft of all her whelps? A thousand light-blue voices bless The magic name of Phelps. Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe, (Not he of the Exchequer), So strong, that he with ease could row A race in a three-decker.

Cam sighed—"When shall I win a race"? Fair Granta whispered—"When, Sir, You see at Four, his proper place, My Faerie-queen-like Spencer." 'Tis distance robes the mountain pale In azure tints of bright hue, 'More than a distance' lends to Dale, His well earned double light-blue.

Proud Oxford burnt in days of old Ridley the Cambridge Martyr, But this year in our Ridley bold Proud Oxford caught a Tartar. And Randolph rowed as well beseemed His school renowned in story, And like old Nelson only dreamed Of Westminster and glory.

These men of weight rowed strong and straight, And led from start to finish; Their slow and steady thirty-eight No spurts could e'er diminish: Till Darbyshire, not given to lose, Sees Cambridge rowing past him; And Goldie steps into his shoes; Long may their leather last him!

Glory be theirs who've won full well The love of Alma Mater, The smiles of every light-blue Belle, The shouts of every Pater! Unlimited was each man's store Of courage, strength, and fettle, From Goldie downwards every oar Was ore of precious metal.

Then fare-ye-well till this time year, Ye heroes stout and strapping, And then beware, forgive my fear, Lest Oxford find you napping; And, oh! when o'er your work ye bend, 'Mid shouts of—"light-blue's winning," If ye would triumph in the end, Remember the beginning!

P.S. The Muse true to her sex, Less to be blamed than pitied, A Post-script must of course annex To state a point omitted. When Granta glorying in success With Camus pours her orisons; One name she gratefully must bless, That name is mighty Morrison's.



THE GREAT BOAT-RACE.

1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity. 5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity. 2. PIGOTT Corpus. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity. 3. WATSON Pembroke. 7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall. 4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret. 8. SELWYN 3rd Trinity. Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.

BEFORE THE RACE.

Come, list to me, who wish to hear the glories of our crew, I'll tell you all the names of those who wear the Cambridge Blue. First HAWKSHAW comes, a stalwart bow, as tough as oak, nay tougher; Look at him ye who wish to see the Antipodes to "duffer." Swift as the Hawk in airy flight, strong as the guardsman SHAW, We men of mortal muscles must contemplate him with awe. Though I dwell by Cam's slow river, and I hope am not a bigot, I think that Isis cannot boast a better man than PIGOTT: Active, and strong, and steady, and never known to shirk, Of Corpus the quintessence, he is always fit for work. The men of Thames will be amazed when they see our "Three" so strong, And doubt if such a mighty form to mortal mould belong. "What son is this?" they, one and all, will ask in awe and wonder; The men of Cam will answer make, "A mighty son of thunder." Next HAWKINS comes at "number 4," the sole surviving pet Of the patroness of rowing, the Lady Margaret; When they think of his broad shoulders, and strong and sinewy arms, Nor parents dear, nor brothers stern, need foster fond alarms. O! a tear of love maternal in Etona's eye will quiver When she sees her favourate KINGLAKE also monarch of the river. Oh! that I could honour fitly in this unassuming song That wondrous combination of steady, long, and strong. Then comes a true-blue mariner from the ever-glorious "First," In the golden arms of Glory and the lap of Victory nurst; Though blue may be his colours, there are better oarsmen few, And Oxford when it sees him will perhaps look still more blue. Then comes the son of STEPHEN, as solid as a wall; We need not add, who know his name, that he hails from Trinity Hall. Oh! in the race, when comes at last the struggle close and dire, May he have the wind and courage of his tutor and his sire; May he think of all the glories of the ribbon black and white, And add another jewel to the diadem so bright! Then comes a name which Camus and Etona know full well A name that's always sure to win and ne'er will prove a sell. O what joy will fill a Bishop's heart oft a far far distant shore, When he sees our Stroke; reviving the memories of yore! Then old Cam will he revisit in fancy's fairy dream, And rouse once more with sounding oar the slow and sluggish stream: But who is this with voice so shrill, so resolute and ready? Who cries so oft "too late!" "too soon!" "quicker forward!" "Steady, steady!" Why 'tis our young toxophilite, our ARCHER bold and true, The lightest and the tightest who has ever steered light-blue. O when he pulls the yielding string may he shoot both strong and straight, And may the night be swift and sure of his mighty arrows eight! May he add another victory to increase our Cambridge score; May Father Thames again behold the light blue to the fore! But ah! the name of Victory falls feebly on my ear— Forgive me! 'tis not cowardice that bids me shed this tear, I weep to think that three long years have looked on our defeat; For three long years we ne'er have known the taste of triumph sweet; O Father Cam! O Father Thames! O ye nymphs of Chiswick eyot! O Triton! O Poseidon! Take some, pity on our fate! What's the use of resolution, or of training, or of science, If anxious friends and relatives to our efforts bid defiance? If they take our strongest heroes from the middle of the boat, Lest exposure to the weather should result in a sore throat? We've rowed our boat when wave on wave o'er ship and crew was dashing, And little were we troubled by the steamers and the splashing. O little do the light-blues care when tempests round them gather, We'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father! For though our vessel sank, our hearts were buoyant as a feather, Since we knew that we had done our best in spite of wind and weather. Then all ye Gods and Goddesses who rule o'er lake and river, O wipe away the trembling tear which in mine eye doth quiver! O wipe away the dire defeats that now we often suffer; Let not the name of Cambridge blue be breathed with that of "duffer!" O melt the hearts of governors; for who can hope to thrive, If, when we're just "together," they despoil us of our "Five?" And lastly, when 'mid shouts and cheers and screams and deafening dins, The two boats start upon their course—

AFTER THE RACE.

Dei mihi, Oxford wins!

(1864).



LINES BY A CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT MARINER

ADDRESSED TO HIS UNIVERSITY.

Wish ye, sons of Alma Mater, Long lost laurels to replace? Listen to a stout old Pater, Once renowned in many a race. Now, alas! I'm fat and forty, And my form grows round to view; And my nose is rather "porty;" But my heart is still light-blue.

'Tis as bad as an emetic, E'en my 'baccy I refuse, When I hear that sports athletic Interfere with Cambridge crews. Once a Grecian runner famous Scorned to fight his country's foes; And to Greece, as some to Camus, Caused innumerable woes.

When I hear the voice parental Cry, "my youngster shall not row!" Then my wrath is transcendental, Then my words with vigour flow. Sires, with hearts of alabaster, Your stern "vetos" yet you'll rue, When ye see a sixth disaster, Overwhelm your loved light-blue.

But whatever to Cambridge happen, Sons of Cam behave like men! Rally round your royal Cap'en, King of Lake, and King of Fen! Fortune helps the brave who court her, Only to yourselves be true; And perhaps, on Putney's water, Victory will crown light-blue.

When your Cox'en cries "all ready," Be alert, dismiss all napping, Get well forward, all sit steady, Grasp the oar, avoid all "capping:" Shoulders square, back straight, eyes ever Fixed upon the back before; Then all eight, with one endeavour, Dip at once the bladed oar.

Catch your stroke at the beginning, Then let legs with vigour work: Little hope has he of winning, Who his "stretcher" loves to shirk. Let your rigid arms extended Be as straight as pokers two; And until the stroke is ended, Pull it, without jerking, through!

Thus all disputations spurning, Ye, ere many a year has past, While old Fortune's wheel is turning, Victory shall taste at last. Only wait and work together; Trust in discipline and pluck— Soon bad luck will run his tether, And good rowing bring good luck.

(1866).



THE SORROWS OF FATHER CAM.

1. WATNEY Lady Margaret. 5. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall 2. BEEBEE Lady Margaret. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity. 3. PIGOTT Corpus 7. GRIFFITHS 3rd Trinity. 4. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity. 8. LAWES 3rd Trinity. Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.

One night, as I silently wandered By Cam's slow meandering stream, And many things mentally pondered, I saw, as it were in a dream, A black head emerge from the billows, A broad body swim through the flood, Till, beneath the o'ershadowing willows, It sank gently down in the mud.

All alone—as a Scholar of Tyrwhitt When examined in Hebrew he sits— On a log that mysterious spirit Smokes in silence, and silently spits. And yet not alone sat the vision; There came, as he sat on his log, A wag of delight and submission From the tail of each demi-drowned dog.

Black eels from his temples were hanging, His teeth were like teeth of a jack; His lips were inaudibly "slanging"; His eyes were all muddy and black; And water-snakes, round his neck twining, Were hissing; and water-rats swam At his feet; so without much divining I recognised Old Father Cam.

"All hail to thee, Camus the reedy!" I cried, in alarm and surprise; "Say, why are thy garments so weedy? And why are these tears in thine eyes?" Then the River-god answered me sadly, "My glory aquatic is gone! My prospects, alas! look but badly; Not a race for four years have I won.

"I have oarsmen as strong—-even stronger— Than when my first honours I bore; Their arms are as long—perhaps longer; Their shoulders as broad as of yore, Yet the prospects of light-blue look bluer; I am losing my swing, form and time; For who can row well in a sewer; Or pull through miasma and slime?"

Thus murmured the River-god moaning; But I bade him to dry his old eye— "In vain is this weeping and groaning; Let your motto be, 'Never say die!' Though your waves be more foul than Cocytus, Though your prospects, no doubt, are most blue; Since Oxford is ready to fight us, We will try to select a good crew.

My friend Lady Margaret tells me She can lend me a Bow and a Two; The Lady, I own, sometimes sells me, But this time I am sure she'll be true. For WATNEY is wiry and plucky, And that BEEBEE'S A 1 all allow; And our boat cannot fail to be lucky With a double 1st Class in the bow.

"Then Corpus its PIGOTT shall lend us, Young, healthy, and active, and strong; And Etona her KINGLAKE shall send us, To row our good vessel along; And Five from the head of the river, Like Pallas from Jove's head appearing, Shall add to the weight of the quiver Of the feather-weight Argonaut steering.

"Then BORTHWICK, the mighty and massive, Shall row like a Briton at Six; And GRIFFITHS, not prone to be passive, Shall pull us to glory like bricks. Our 'Stroke,' people say, on the feather Is a trifle too fond of a pause; But while some say, 'there's nothing like leather,' I maintain there is nothing like LAWES.

"Washerwomen, not over aquatic, Says he rows 'like a mangle'—what trash! That his swing and his time are erratic; That he puts in his oar with a splash. But these wonderful judges of rowing, If we win will be loud in applause; And declare 'the result was all owing To that excellent stroke, MR. LAWES.'

"Our Coach, on the bank briskly riding, Will keep his strong team well together, His Bucephalus gamely bestriding, In spite of the wind and the weather. For the laws of the land you may send me To Counsel from chambers in Town; For the laws of the river commend me To the CHAMBERS of Cambridge renown.

"Then cheer up, beloved Father Camus! Blow your nose! dry those tears that are falling; You will live once again to be famous, In spite of the prospects appalling. Though dead dogs down your fair stream are floating, Father Cam will their odours defy; Though Oxford may beat us in boating, Yet Cambridge will 'never say die!'"

(1865).



THE COMING BOAT RACE.

OXFORD. CAMBRIDGE.

1. R. T. RAIKES. 1. J. STILL. 2. F. CROWDER. 2. J. R. SELWYN. 3. W. FREEMAN. 3. J. A. BOURKE. 4. F. WILLAN. 4. J. FORTESCUE. 5. E. F. HENLEY. 5. D. F. STEVENSON. 6. W. W. WOOD. 6. R. A. KINGLAKE. 7. H. P. SENHOUSE. 7. H. WATNEY. 8. M. BROWN. 8. W. R. GRIFFITHS. Steerer—C. R. W. TOTTENHAM. Steerer—A. FORBES.

Attend, all ye who wish to see the names of each stout crew, Who've come to town from cap and gown to fight for their favourite blue.

OXFORD.

First TOTTENHAM comes, a well-known name, that cattle driving Cox'en. Who oft to victory has steer'd his gallant team of Oxon.

O'er Putney's course so well can he that team in safety goad, That we ought to call old Father Thames the Oxford-Tottenham Road. Then comes the Stroke, a mariner of merit and renown; Since dark blue are his colours, he can never be dun-brown. Ye who would at your leisure his heroic deeds peruse, Go, read Tom Brown at Oxford by the other Tom—TOM HUGHES. Next SENHOUSE, short for Senate-house, but long enough for seven, Shall to the eight-oar'd ship impart a sen-at-orial leaven. Then Number Six (no truer word was ever said in joke) In keeping with his name of WOOD, has heart and limbs of oak. The voice of all aquatic men the praise of "Five" proclaims; No finer sight can eye delight than "HENLEY-upon-Thames." Then Number Four who is heaver far than a number of Macmillan, Though WILLAN'S his name may well exclaim, "Here I am, but I hain't a willan." [1] Then FREEMAN rows at Number Three, in a freer and manly style; No finer oar was e'er produced by the Tiber, Thames, or Nile. Let politicians, if they please, rob freemen of their vote, Provided they leave Oxford men a FREEMAN for their boat. Among the crowd of oarsmen proud no name will fame shout louder Than his who sits at Number Two, the straight and upright CROWDER. Then RAIKES rows bow, and we must allow that with all the weight that's aft The bow-oar gives a rakish air to the bows o' the dark-blue craft. This is the crew, who've donned dark blue, and no stouter team of Oxon Has ploughed the waves of old Father Thames, or owned a better Cox'en.

CAMBRIDGE.

Now, don't refuse, aquatic Muse, the glories to rehearse Of the rival crew, who've donned light blue, to row for better for worse. They've lost their luck, but retain their pluck, and whate'er their fate may be, Light blue may meet one more defeat, but disgrace they ne'er will see. We've seen them row thro' sleet and snow till they sank—"merses profundo" (HORACE, forgive me!) "pulchrior Cami evenit arundo." First little FORBES our praise absorbs, he comes from a learned College, So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes with scientific knowledge. May he shun the charge of swinging barge more straight than an archer's arrow, May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate in the stern of his vessel narrow! Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of oak, who has stood to his flag like twenty, While some stood aloof, and were not proof against dolce far niente. So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the banks of Cam recall The swing and style, lost for a while, since the days of JONES and HALL. Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven ne'er rowed in a Cambridge crew; His long straight swing is just the thing which an oarsman loves to view. Then comes KINGLAKE, of a massive make, who in spite of failures past, Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue as his colours to the mast. The Consul bold in days of old was thanked by the Patres hoary, When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck on the field of Cannae gory; So whate'er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let Cambridge men agree, Their voice to raise in their Captain's praise with thrice and three times three. Then Number Five is all alive, and for hard work always ready, As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a pendulum strong and steady. Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without delay or dawdlin'; Right proud I trow as they see him row are the merry men of Magdalen. Then comes a name well known to fame, the great and gallant BOURKE; Who ne'er was known fatigue to own, or neglect his share of work. New zeal and life to each new stroke stout SELWYN doth impart, And ever with fresh vigour, like Antaeus, forward start. Then last, but not the least of all, to row the boat along, They've got a bow whom all allow to be both STILL and strong. No crew can quail, or ever fail to labour with a will, When so much strength and spirits are supplied them by their STILL. We've done our task—to you who ask the probable result We more will speak, if you next week our Prophet will consult.

(1866)

[1] Cf. Pickwick. "Here I am, but I hain't a willan."—FAT BOY.



A BALLAD.

I.

I cannot rest o' the night, Mother, For my heart is cold and wan: I fear the return o' light, Mother, Since my own true love is gone. O winsome aye was his face, Mother, And tender his bright blue eye; But his beauty and manly grace, Mother, Beneath the dark earth do lie.

II.

They tell me that I am young, Mother, That joy will return once more; But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother, And I feel the wound full sore. The tree at the root frost-bitten Will flourish never again, And the woe that my life hath smitten Hath frozen each inmost vein.

III.

Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother, I think o' my lover that's gone; Heaven seem'd to draw very near, Mother, As above us in glory it shone. Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness? Ah! would from life I could fly! That laying me down in my sadness I might kiss thee, my Mother, and die!



AN APRIL SQUALL.

Breathless is the deep blue sky; Breathless doth the blue sea lie; And scarcely can my heart believe, 'Neath such a sky, on such a wave, That Heaven can frown and billows rave, Or Beauty so divine deceive.

Softly sail we with the tide; Silently our bark doth glide; Above our heads no clouds appear: Only in the West afar A dark spot, like a baneful star, Doth herald tempests dark and drear.

And now the wind is heard to sigh; The waters heave unquietly; The Heaven above is darkly scowling; Down with the sail! They come, they come! Loos'd from the depths of their wintry home, The wild fiends of the storm are howling.

Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar, For the wind is rising more and more: Row like a man through the dashing brine! Row on!—already the squall is past: No more the sky is overcast; Again the sun doth brightly shine.

Oh! higher far is the well-earn'd bliss Of quiet after a storm like this Than all the joys of selfish ease: 'Tis thus I would row o'er the sea of Life, Thus force my way through the roar and strife, And win repose by toils like these.



BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—I.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

[The following Verses were written for a country Penny Reading].

Two Bedfordshire maidens in one village dwelt; Side by side in their Church every Sunday they knelt; They were not very pretty and not very plain; And their names were Eliza and Emily Jane.

Now Carpenter Smith was young, steady and still, And wherever he went, worked and played with a will: To bed he went early, and early did rise; So, of course, he was healthy, and wealthy, and wise.

But John he grew tired of a bachelor's life, So he looked all around him in search of a wife; And his eyes, as they wandered, again and again Returned to Eliza and Emily Jane.

And whenever those maidens encountered his eye, Their pulses beat quickly (perhaps you know why); They each of them thought him a wonderful Don, And wished to be married to Carpenter John.

But John, as you've heard, was a prudent young man; And determined their faults and their merits to scan; Says he, "If I marry, I'm tied for my life; "So it's well to be cautious in choosing a wife."

Now I'm sorry to say that young Emily Jane Was disposed to be rather conceited and vain; In fact, for the truth I'm obliged to confess, Was decidedly fond of extravagant dress.

So she thought the best way to the Carpenter's heart Was to purchase gay dresses and finery smart; In the carrier's van off to Bedford she went, And many weeks' wages in finery spent.

Her dress it was blue, and her ribbons were green, And her chignon the highest that ever was seen, And perched on the top, heavy-laden with flowers, Was a bonnet, embosomed in beautiful bowers.

So red, as she walked to the Church, was her shawl That the bull in the farm-yard did bellow and bawl; And so high were her heels that on entering the door She slipped, and she stumbled, and fell on the floor.

Says Carpenter Smith, "It's decidedly plain "That I'd better keep clear of that Emily Jane:" So from Emily Jane he averted his eye, And just at that moment Eliza passed by.

Now Eliza had thought, "If his heart I subdue, "It shall not be by dresses and finery new: "For a lover who's taken by ornaments gay "Will love some one else ere a week pass away."

So her ribbons were lilac; white straw was her bonnet; Her dress was light grey, with dark braiding upon it; Her jacket was black; and her boots of stout leather Were fitted for walking in all sorts of weather.

She was not very pretty, and yet in her smile There was something that charmed by its freedom from guile: And tho' lowly her lot, yet her natural grace Made her look like a lady in figure and face.

A rose from the garden she wore on her breast, And John, as her fingers he tenderly press'd, Seemed to feel a sharp arrow ('twas Cupid's first dart) Come straight from the rosebud and enter his heart.

Now John and Eliza are husband and wife; Their quarrels are few, and contented their life; They eat and they drink and they dress in good taste, For their money they spend on their wants, not in waste.

But I'm sorry to say that Miss Emily Jane Has still an aversion to dress that is plain; And the consequence is that she always has stayed, And is likely to stay, a disconsolate maid.

MORAL.

Young ladies, I hope you'll attend to my moral, When you hear it, I'm sure you and I shall not quarrel: If you're pretty, fine dress is not needed to show it; If you're ugly, fine dress will make all the world know it.

Young men, if you wish, as I trust you all do, A partner for worse or for better to woo, Don't marry a peacock dressed out in gay feathers, But a wife guaranteed to wear well in all weathers.



BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—II.

"ONE GLASS OF BEER."

Ne quid nimis.

Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire man; (The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous clan) He was happy and healthy and handsome and strong, And could sing on occasion a capital song.

His father had once been a labourer poor, But had always contrived to keep want from the door; And by work and by thrift had enough in his pocket To rent a small farm from his landlord, and stock it.

He died: Tom succeeded: the ladies all said It was high time he went to the Church to be wed; And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess, Confessed if he "offer'd" perhaps they'd say "Yes."

But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller's young daughter, And was only awaiting the right time to court her; So one day as he saw her walk out from the mill, He set off in pursuit with a very good will.

Now Tom, I must tell you, had one little fault, He was rather too fond of a mixture of malt; In fact, if my meaning is not very clear, I'm afraid he was rather too "partial to Beer."

Says Tom to himself as he followed the maid, "I should like just a glass, for I'm rather afraid"— No doubt at such times men are nervous and queer, So he stopped at the Public for one glass of Beer.

He had his one glass, and then two or three more, And when he set out from the Public-house door He saw a sad sight, and he saw it with groans— Mary Anne on the arm of Theophilus Jones.

Yes, Theophilus Jones was a steady young man, Who enjoyed but was never too fond of his can; And while Smith in the public was stopping to swill, Jones had woo'd and had won the fair maid of the mill.

Tom homeward returned like a runaway pup, When the lash of the whipper-in touches him up; And he sighed to himself, "It's most painfully clear That I've lost a good wife for a bad glass of Beer."

* * * * *

At length he was married to Emily Brown— A tidier girl there was none in the town— The church bells were ringing, the village was gay, As Tom met his bride in her bridal array.

For a twelvemonth or more things went on pretty straight; Tom went early to work, and was never home late; But after that time a sad change, it would seem, Came over the spirit of Emily's dream.

The Rector missed Tom from his place in the choir; In the evening his wife sat alone by the fire; When her husband came home he was never too early, And his manner was dull, and at times even surly.

He was late in the autumn in sowing his wheat; His bullocks and sheep had disease of the feet; His sows had small litters; his taters went bad; And he took just a glass when he felt rather sad.

The Rector's "good lady" was passing one day, And looked in, her usual visit to pay— "How dy'e do, Mrs. Smith? Is the baby quite well? Have you got any eggs, or young chickens to sell?"

But Emily Smith couldn't answer a word; At length her reply indistinctly was heard; "I'm all of a mullock [1], it's no use denying—" And with that the poor woman she burst out a crying.

Then after a time with her apron she dried The tears from her eyes, and more calmly replied, "I don't mind confessing the truth, ma'am, to you, For I've found in you always a comforter true.

Things are going to ruin; the land's full o' twitch; There's no one to clean out a drain or a ditch; The gates are all broken, the fences all down; And the state of our farm is the talk of the town.

We've lost a young horse, and another's gone lame; Our hay's not worth carting; the wheat's much the same; Our pigs and our cattle are always astray; Our milk's good-for-nothing; our hens never lay.

Tom ain't a bad husband, as husbands do go; (That ain't saying much, as I daresay you know) But there's one thing that puts him and me out o' gear— He's always a craving for one glass of Beer.

He never gets drunk, but he's always half-fuddled; He wastes all his time, and his wits are all muddled; "We've notice to quit for next Michaelmas year— All owing to Tom and his one glass of Beer!"

MORAL.

My friends, I believe we shall none of us quarrel If I try from this story to draw out a moral; Tom Smith, I am told, has now taken the pledge; Let us hope he will keep the right side of the hedge.

But because men like Tom find it hard to refrain, It's hard that we temperate folk should abstain; Tea and coffee no doubt are most excellent cheer But a hard-working man likes his one glass of Beer.

What with 'chining [2] and hoeing and ploughing and drill, A glass of good beer will not make a man ill; But one glass, like poison, you never must touch— It's the glass which is commonly called one too much!

[1] Muddle.

[2] Machining, i.e. threshing by machinery.



BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—III.

FRED AND BILL.

Two twins were once born in a Bedfordshire home; Such events in the best managed households may come; Tho', as Tomkins remarked in a voice rather gruff, "One child at a time for poor folks is enough."

But it couldn't be helped, so his wife did her best; The children were always respectably drest; Went early to school; were put early to bed; And had plenty of taters and bacon and bread.

Now we all should suppose that the two, being twins, Resembled each other as much as two pins: But no—they as little resembled each other As the man in the moon is "a man and a brother."

Fred's eyes were dark brown, and his hair was jet black; He was supple in body, and straight in the back, Learnt his lessons without any trouble at all; And was lively, intelligent, comely, and tall.

But Willy was thick-set; and freckled and fair; Had eyes of light blue, and short curly red hair; And, as I should like you the whole truth to know, The schoolmaster thought him "decidedly slow."

But the Parson, who often came into the school, Had discovered that Willy was far from a fool, And that tho' he was not very quick in his pace, In the end "slow and steady" would win in the race.

Years passed—Fred grew idle and peevish and queer; Took to skittles, bad language, tobacco, and beer: Grew tired of his work, when it scarce was begun; Was Jack of all trades and the master of none.

He began as a labourer, then was a clerk; Drove a hansom in London by way of a "lark;" Enlisted, deserted, and finally fled Abroad, and was thought by his friends to be dead.

But Willy meanwhile was content with his lot; He was slow, but he always was found on the spot; He wasted no money on skittles and ale, But put by his pence, when he could, without fail.

To the Penny Bank weekly his savings he took, And soon had a pretty round sum in his book: No miser was he, but he thought it sound sense In the days of his youth to put by a few pence.

And so he got on; he was no millionaire, But he always had money enough and to spare; Could help a poor friend; pay his rent and his rate; And always put silver at church in the plate.

His brother, meantime, who was thought to be dead, Had across the Atlantic to Canada fled; Then had gone to New York; then New Zealand had tried; But always had failed thro' perverseness and pride.

He might have done well, but wherever he went, As soon as his money came in, it was spent; As of old he tried all trades, and prospered in none, For he thought that hard work was "a poor sort of fun."

Then he heard of "the diggings," and there tried his luck; He was never deficient in smartness and pluck; And by means of some work, and more luck, in a year He managed to make fifteen hundred pounds clear.

Then he thought of old England and Bedfordshire chums, So back to his parish in triumph he comes; And need I remark he found many a friend Right willing to help him his nuggets to spend?

He turned up his nose at his poor brother Bill, Who was always content to be plodding up hill; Hard work he disliked, he despised peace and quiet, So he spent all his time and his money in riot.

There was never a horse-race but Fred he was there; He went to each meet, meeting, marker and fair; In a few words, his candle he burnt to the socket, Till he found one fine day not a rap in His pocket.

Then his poor brother Bill came and lent him a hand; Gave him work and a share of his own bit of land; If he means to keep steady I cannot surmise— Let us hope that at length Fred has learnt to be wise.

But one thing is plain, if you mean to get on, You will find that success must by patience be won; In the battle of life do not trust to your luck, But to honest hard work, perseverance, and pluck.

Don't turn up your nose at a hard-working chap, For pride soon or later must meet with mishap; And wherever your lot in the world may be cast, "Slow and steady" goes safer than "foolish and fast."

Take warning by Fred, and avoid for a friend The man who would tempt you your savings to spend; Don't waste your spare money in riotous pranks, But put it in Penny, or Post-office Banks.



BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—IV.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

I'm a Bedfordshire Chap, and Bill Stumps is my name, And to tell it don't give me no manner of shame; For a man as works honest and hard for his livin', When he tells you his name, needn't feel no misgivin'.

And works's what I live by. At dawn o' the day, While some folks is snorin', I'm up and away; When I stops for my Bavor [1], 'twould dew your heart good, To see how I relish the taste o' my food.

I'm fond o' my hoein', and ploughin', and drill, And my hosses all knows me and works with a will; I'm fond o' my 'chinin', and thackin' and drainin', For when work's to be done, 'taint no use a complainin.'

I whistles a tune if the mornins be dark; When I goes home o' nights, I sings sweet as a lark; And you'll travel some distance afore you can find A chap more contented and happy in mind.

And I'll tell ye the reason, I've got a good wife, The joy o' my heart, and the pride o' my life. She ain't made o' gold, nor ain't much of a beauty, But she's allers a tryin' to dew of her duty.

And a tidier home there ain't none in the town Than mine and my Polly's—I'll lay you a crown! If it ain't quite a palace, I'm sure 'tis as clean: And I'm King o' my cottage, and Polly's the Queen.

But things wasn't allers as lively as now— There's thirty good years since I fust went to plough; I wor then but a lad, and a bad'un, I fear, Just a trifle tew partial to baccy and beer.

So my maister he very soon gone me the sack, And my faither he gone me the stick to my back; But I cared for his bangins and blows not a rap; I wor sich a queer onaccountable chap!

To make a long story as short as I can; When I'd done as a boy, I became a young man; And, as happens to most men at that time o' life, I axed a young 'ooman if she'd be my wife.

And Poll she consented. O, how my heart beat, When she gone me her hand, smilin' wonderful sweet! I could hear my heart beatin', just like a Church bell, Till I thought as my weskit 'ud bust pretty well.

But worn't I main happy, and well nigh a crazy, When I heard her her say "Yes," blushin' sweet as a daisy! We was axed in the church—no one dared to say nay; So The Rector he spliced us, one fine soommer day.

My Poll wor a steady young gal, and a good 'un For washin' and scrubbin', and makin' a pudden; Not one o them gossiping gals, wot I hate, But a quoietish 'ooman, wi' brains in her pate.

But soom how or other things didn't go right; There wasn't atwixt us no manner o' spite; But I stayed out o' Saturdays nights, and I fear Spent more nor I'd ought on my baccy and beer.

And Poll she look'd sadly, but didn't say nought; She was one as 'ud allers say less than she thought; But I know'd what she thought—so a cloud kind o' come, And darkened the sun as once shone in our home,

But it come to a pass—'twas the fifth o' November, The day and the year I shall allers remember: Twas midnight and past when I come to my door, Scarce able to stan'—well, I won't say no more?

Next mornin' my head it wor well nigh a splitten, And I stagger'd and stagger'd, as weak as a kitten; But the wust of it all wor the dressin' I got From Polly—oh, worn't it main spicy and hot?

What she said I won't tell you; but you married men, As knows wot it is to be pecked by a hen, Wot I means yer to guess pretty plainish 'ull find, When I tells you she gone me "a bit of her mind."

And now I'm as sober as sober can be, And me and my Poll, as we sits down to tea, Don't care very far of an evenin' to roam— We're allers so jolly contented at home.

I wears no blue ribbon outside o' my coat, For a pint o' good ale seems to freshen my throat; But offer me more and I'm bound to refuse it— For my Poll's got a tongue, and her knows how to use it.

So I takes just a pint, when there's coppers to spare— A pint wi' your dinner ain't no great affair— But the time' o' the day as suits Polly and me, Is when we sits down of an evenin' to tea.

For the young 'uns sits round us all smilin' and clean; And Sally knits stockings wot's fit for the Queen; Little Bill reads a book, and Jemima she sews, And how happy our home is the parish all knows.

* * * * * *

Now young men and maids, if ye'll listen to me, I'll give you some counsel all gratis and free— Young men if you want to be happy in life, Remember Bill Stumps, and look out for a wife.

Not one o' them husseys as gossips and chatters, And is allers o' mindin' of other folk's matters, But one as 'ull work, and be gentle and kind, And as knows when to gi'e you "a bit of her mind."

Young maids who are willing young wives to become, Remember, the sweetest of places is home; But remember, no husband 'ull find his home sweet, If it ain't bright and cheerful, and tidy and neat.

If all's of a mullock and dirty and dusty, When he pops home to dinner, he'll turn rayther crusty; But be tidy, and careful in cookin' his grub, And, I'll bet what you like, he wont go to the Pub.

So send off the young'uns to school afore nine; And when they and faither come home for to dine, Don't gi'e 'em cold taters and bacon half-fried, But a meal as 'ull cheer 'em and warm their inside.

And don't let the children go roamin' o' night, But keep 'em at home for their faither's delight; And I hope you may all be as happy and jolly, In your Bedfordshire homes, as Bill Stumps and his Polly!

[1] Bedfordshire for Luncheon.



FINIS.