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That is not changed, my friend! you 'll always find The same old bounty and old welcome there.
THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE.
Why, Grandmamma, You said yourself you did not like to hear him. Pray now!-we won't be frightened.
Well, well, children! But you 've heard all my stories—Let me see, Did I never tell you how the smuggler murderd The woman down at Pill?
You must have heard
Oh! 't was blear-cyed Moll
Ugly enough, poor soul! At ten yards distance you could hardly tell If it were man or woman, for her voice Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore A man's old coat and hat:--and then her face! There was a merry story told of hier, How when the press-gang came to take her husband As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself Put on his clothes and went before the captain.
And so they prest a woman!
'Twas a trick
With her asses!
They took him up;
guilty conscience haunted him; by day,
Was he hung, then ?
"I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs from doing any mischief should they afterwards become mad.
GRANDMOTHER. Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man, Your uncles went to see bim on his trial; He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, And such a horror in his meagre face, They said he look'd like one who never slept. He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end, And met his death with fears that well might warn From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ.
From the fresh
should cover it; Nature would do that office soon; and none Who Irod upon the senseless turf would think Of what a world of woes lay buried there!
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.
Wbither are you bound?
Aye, Sir, 'T is cutting keep! I smart at every breath; Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, For the way is long before me, and my feet, God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, If it pleased God, at once lie down and die.
HANNAH. Passing across a green and lonely lane A funeral met our view. It was not here A sight of every day, as in the streets Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful monilis With such slow wasting, that the hour of death Came welcome to her. We pursued our way To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot, We wore away the time. But it was eve When homewardly I went, and in the air Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade Which makes the eye turn inward: bearing then Over the vale the heavy toll of death Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead; I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, And he who should have cherish'd her, far off Sailid on the seas. Left thus, a wretched one, Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues Were busy with her name. She had to bear The sharper sorrow of neglect from him Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, But only once that drop of comfort came To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; And when his parents had some tidings from him, There was no mention of poor Hannah there, Or 't was the cold inquiry, more unkind Than silence. So she pined and pined away, And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest From labour, knitting there with lifted
arms, Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omilted no kind office, working for her, Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay On the sick bed of poverty, worn out With her long suffering and those painful thoughts Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, That she could make no effort to express Affection for her infant; and the child, Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too Had grown indifferent to all things of earth, Finding her only comfort in the thought Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. There bad she now, in that last home, been laid, And all was over now,-sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence : Their work was dope. The school-boys as they sport la the churchyard, for awhile might turn away
Sir, I am going
Perhaps your fears Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost, There
may be still enough for comfort left; An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart To keep life warm, and he may live to talk With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude Makes the maim'd Sailor happy.
'T is not that, An arm or leg, -I could have borne with that. It was no ball, Sir, but some cursed thing Which bursts, and burns that hurt him. Something, Sir, They do not use on board our English ships, It is so wicked!
Rascals ! a mean art
"The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were sbockingly mangled by them: one in particular, as described in the Eclogae, lost both his eyes. It would be right and bumane to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies; but to use any thing that only indicis additional torture upon the sufferers in war, is cruel and wicked.
I had a letter from the hospital,
He yet may live. But if the worst should chance, why you must bear The will of leaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallin Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself You will not in unpilied poverty Be left to mourn liis loss. Your grateful country, Amid the triumph of her victory, Remembers those who paid its price of blood, And with a noble charily relieves The widow and the orphan.
God reward them! God bless them! it will help me in iny age, But, Sir! it will not pay me for my
TRAVELLER. Was he your only child ?
My only one, The stay and comfort of widowhood, A dear good boy!-when first he went to sea I felt what it would come to, --something told me I should be childless soon.
But tell me, Sir, If it be true that for a hurt like huis There is no curc? Please God 10 spare his life Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one from his youth up Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, And he had pone to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy!
of this be sure,
But how came it He chose to be a Sailor?
You shall hear, Sir;
The choice at least Was kindly left him, and for broken laws This was, methinks, no lieavy punishment.
So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so,
Well! well! take comfort He will be taken care of if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want.
Sir, I shall want
No, Sir! poor fellow,--he was wise enough
NATHANIEL. FATHER! here, father! I have found a horse-shoe! Faith it was just in time; for i' other night I laid two straws across at Margery's door, And ever since I feard that she mighe do me A mischief for 't. There was the Miller's boy Who set his dog at that black cat of liers, I met him upon crutches, and he told me 'T was all her evil eye.
'T is rare good luck! I would have gladly given a crown for one
If 't would have done as well. But where didst find it?
Here's the Curate coming, Down on the common; I was going a-field,
He ought to rid the parish of such vermin! And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare; In the old times they used to hunt them out, He had hardly said « Good day,» before I saw
And hang them without mercy; but, Lord bless us!
Good day, Farmer!
And we 're afraid of Margery.
Poor old woman ! For she is but tender-footed
What can you fear from her ?
What can we fear! I should not like to see her limping back,
Who lamed the Miller's boy? who raised the wind Poor beast !- But charity begins at home,
That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'
think And, Nat, there's our own horse in such a way Rides my poor horse a'nigints ? wlio mocks the hounds ? This morning!
But let me catch her at that trick again,
And I've a silver bullet ready for her,
One that shall iame her, double how she will.
NATHANTEL. With a hole through, and every body says
What makes her sit there moping by herself, That 't is a special charm against the hags.
With no soul near her but that great black cat?
And do but look at her! It could not be a proper natural hole then,
CURATE. Or 't was not a right pebble ;-for I found him
Poor wretch; half blind Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb,
And crooked with her years, without a child And panting so! Lord knows where he had been Or friend in her old age, 't is hard indeed When we were all asleep, through bush and brake, To have her very miseries made her crimes ! Up-bill and down-hill all alike, full stretch
I met her but last week in that hard frost
Which made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd
old woman By land and water,
Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad Over the sea, perhaps!—I have heard tell
And pick the liedges, just to keep herself "T is many thousand miles off at the end
From perishing with cold,—because no neighbour Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. Had pity on her age; and then she cried, They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear Apd said the children pelted her with snow-balls, Some ointment over them, and then away
And wish'd that she were dead. Out of the window! but 't is worse than all To worry poor beasts so. Shame upon it
I wish she was! That in a Christian country they should let
She has plagued the parish long enough! Such creatures li ve!
I know what's charity; who pays his tithes
Who can better do it?
You 've been a prudent and industrious man,
Why, thank God, Sir, And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven I've had no reason to complain of fortune. Croak at my door!-She sits there, nose and knees
CURATE. Smoke-dried and shriveil'd o'er a starved fire,
Complain! why you are wealthy! All the parish With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes
Look up to you. Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure
Perhiaps, Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE She'd curse the music!
You can afford a little to the poor;
And then, what's better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance.
God forbid I should want charity!
Oh! 't is a comfort
Farmer, I'm going
poor, and sick! a miserable lot,
What! is she going? Well God forgive her then, if she has dealt In the black art! I'll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something.
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess
A widow here
Needed support; while with the watering-pot
Charles, it seems
One only care
THE RUINED COTTAGE. Ar, Charles ! I knew that this would fix thine eye! This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower Still fresh and fragraut; and
I led thee here,