I feared to see my mother's tears, my father's agony,
When they knew that their beloved ones were in the deep, deep sea.

Yet still my eyes looked wistfully across the ocean-tide,
And, half unconsciously, I watched the pallid moonbeams glide
In silver streams across the hills, until they rested where
The old church raised its ivy-tower upon the midnight air,

I knew that dark green ivy-tower, I knew the house of God, To which so oft in sinless joy my boyhood's steps had trod; Where youth's first breath of prayer and praise had risen up on high, Pure as the dew-drop of the morn exhaled to the sky.

And many of my early loved were sleeping all around
Within their narrow, silent home, beneath that holy ground;
And on their peaceful resting place I saw the moonbeams shed
A ray, as if Time's finger pale was pointing to the dead.

I gazed upon the moonbeam pale, till, to my aching eyes,
A melancholy spectral shade seemed on the air to rise ;
The phantom of a waking dream with coming sorrow fraught,
The dim ideal shadow of an agonizing thought.

As gliding from my aching sight, the wan, pale figure passed,
A damp and painful chilliness o'er my trembling limbs was cast :
I spake no word, I heard no sound, but, by my feelings led,
Believed, what soon I found was true, that all at home were dead !


Sir Philip Blandford and Farmer Ashfield. Sir Philip.—Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine?

Ashfield.-Ees, zur, I do, at your zarvice. Sir Philip.-I hope a profitable one ? Ashfield.-Zometimes it be zur. But thic year, it be all t'other way as twur—but I do hope, as our landlords have a tightish big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind hearted as to take a little bit of the bad.

Sir Philip. It is but reasonable. I conclude then, you are in my debt.

Ashfield.-Ees, zur, I be-at your zarvice.
Sir Philip.-How much ?

Ashfield.—Sir, I do owe ye a hundred and fifty pounds-at your zarvice.

Sir Philip.- Which you can't pay. Ashfield.-Not a varthing, zur-at your zarvice. Sir Philip.-Well, I am willing to give you every indulgence. Ashfield. Be you, zur? that be deadlý kind.—'Dear heart ! it will make my auld dame quite young again, and don't think helping a poor man will do your honour's health any arm- -I don't indeed, zur— I had a thought of speaking to your worship about it—but then thinks I, the gentleman, mayhap, be one of those that do like to do a good turn, and not to have a word zaid about it—zo, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure I never should-should not, indeed zur.

Sir Philip.-Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition

Ashfield.-Ees, zur.

Sir Philip.-On condition, I say, you instantly turn out that boy—that Henry.

Ashfield.-Turn out Henry! Ha, ha, ha! Excuse my tittering, zur ; but you bees making your vun of I, zure.

Sir Philip. I am not apt to trifle. Send him instantly from you, or take the consequences.

Ashfield.-Turn out Henry! I vow I shou’dn't knaw how to zet

about it-I should not, indeed zur.

Sir Philip.—You hear my determination. If you disobey, you know what will follow. I'll leave you to reflect on it. (Exit.

Ashfield.-Well, zur, l'll argufy the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye. (Makes the motion of turning out.)-I should be deadly awkward at it vor zartin.--However, I'll put the case. Well, I goes whiztling whoam-noa, drabbit it, I shou’dn't be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well, I goes whoam, and I sees Henry zitting by my wife, mixing up someit to comfort the wold zool, and take away the pain of her rhumatics. Very well, then Henry places a chair vor I by the vire zide, and zays—“ Varmer, the horses be fed, the sheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but zit down, smoke your pipe, and be happy !" Very well, (becomes affected) Then I zays

Henry, you be poor and friendless, zo you must turn out of my houze directly.” Very well, then my wife stares at I-reaches her hand towards the vire place, and throws the poker at my head. Very well, then Henry gives a kind of anguish shake, and getting up sighs from the bottom of his heart—then holding up his head like a king, says—“ Varmer, I have too long been a burthen to you—Heaven protect you as you have me. Farewell! I go.” Then I says, “ If thee does I'll be domn’d,” (with great energy.) Hollo ; you Mr. Sir Philip ! you may come in.

(Enter Sir Philip Blandford.


Zur, I have argufied the topic, and it wou'd'nt be pratty--zo can't Sir Philip.-Can't ! absurd ! Ashfield.-Well, zur, there is but another word-I won't., Sir Philip.-Indeed !

Ashfield.—No, zur, I won't ;—I'd zee myself hang'd first, and you too, zur—I would indeed (bowing.)

Sir Philip:-You refuse then to obey.
Ashfield.--I do, zur—at your zarvice (bowing.)
Sir Philip.—Then the law must take its course.

Ashfield.-I be very zorry for that too—I be, indeed zur ; but if corn wou'd’nt grow, I cou’dn't help it; it wer'n't poison'd by the hand that zowd it. Thic hand, zir, be as free from guilt as your own.

Sir Philip.--Oh! (sighing deeply.)

Ashfield.-It were never held out to clinch a hard bargain, nor will it turn a good lad out into the wicked world, because he be poorish a bit. I be zorry you be offended, zur, quite—but come what wool, I'll never hit thic hand against here, but when I be zure that someit at inzide will jump against it with pleasure (bowing.) I do hope you'll repent of all your zins—I do, indeed, zur ; and if you shou'd, I'll come and see you again as friendly as ever--I wool, indeed, zur.

Sir Philip.-Your repentance will come too late ! (Exit. Ashfield.

Thank ye, zur-good morning to you—I do hope I have made mysel agreeable-and so I'll go whoam. (Exit.


SINCE gratitude, 'tis said, is not o'er common,

And friendly acts are pretty near as few;
With high and low, with man, and eke with woman,

With Turk, with Pagan, Christian, and with Jew;
We ought, at least, whene'er we chance to find

Of these rare qualities a slender sample,
To show they may possess the human mind,

And try the boasted influence of example.
Who knows how far the novelty may charm?

It can't, at any rate, do much harm.
The tale we give, then, and we need not fear
The moral, if there be one, will appear.
Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day,

One, Glazier Dick, the other Tom the Tinker;
Both with light purses, but with spirits gay,
And hard it were to name the sturdiest drinker.


Their ale they quaff'd,
And as they swigg'd the nappy,

They both agreed 'tis said,
That trade was wonderous dead;

They jok'd, sung, laughed,
And were completely happy.
The landlord's eye bright as his sparkling ale,

Glisten'd to see them the brown pitcher hug,
For every jest, and song, and merry tale,

Had this blithe ending- Bring us t'other mug.'
Now Dick, the glazier, feels his bosom buru
To do his friend, Tom Tinker, a good turn;
And when the heart to friendship feels inclin'd,
Occasion seldom loiters long behind.
The kettle gaily singing on the fire,
Gives Dick a hint just to his heart's desire;
And, while to draw more ale the landlord goes,
Dick in the ashes all the water throws;
Then puts the kettle on the fire again,

And at the tinker winks,

As 'trade's success! he drinks,
Nor doubts the wish'd success Tom will obtain.
Our laudlord ne'er could such a toast withstand,
So, giving each kind customer a hand,

His friendship, too, display'd,

And drank success to trade!'
But o, how pleasure vanish'd from his eye,

How long and rueful his round visage grew,
Soon as he saw the kettle's bottom fly;

Solder the only fluid he could view..
He rav'd, he caper'd, and he swore,
And d-d the kettle's body o'er and o'er.
Come, come,' says Dick, 'fetch us, my friend, more ale,

All trades, you know, must live;
Let's drink, “may trade with none of us e'er fail,"

The job to Tom then give;
And, for the ale he drinks, our lad of mettle,
Take my word for it, soon will mend the kettle.
The landlord yields, but hopes 'tis no offence,
To curse the trade that thrives at his expense.
Tom undertakes the job, to work he goes,
And just concludes it with the evening's close.
Souls so congenial had friends Tom and Dick,

Each might be call'd a loving brother ;
Thought Tom, to serve my friend I know a trick,

And one good turn, in truth, deserves another.
Out now he slily slips,

But not a word he said,

The plot was in his head, And off he nimbly trips,

Swift to a neighbouring church his way he takes;

Nor in the dark,

Misses his mark,
But every pane of glass he quickly breaks.

Back as he goes,

His bosom glows,
To think how great will be his friend Dick's joy.
At getting so much excellent employ,
Return'd, he, beckoning, draws his friend aside

Importance in his face;
And to Dick's ear his mouth applied,

Thus briefly states the case !
Dick, I may give you joy-you're a made man,

I've done your business most complete, my friend:
I'm off, the devil may catch me if he can,

Each window in the church you've got to mend
Ingratitude's worse curse my head befall,

If for your sake I have not broke them all.'
Tom, with surprise, sees Dick turn pale,

Who deeply sighs ‘0, la !'

Then drops his under jaw,
And all his powers of utterance fail :
While horror in his ghastly face,
And bursting eye-balls Tom can trace ;
Whose sympathetic muscles, just and true,

Share with his heart,

Dick's unknown smart,
And two such phizzes ne'er met mortal view.
At length friend Dick his speech regain'd,
And soon the mystery explain'd ;-
* You have, indeed, my business done!
And I, as well as you, must run ;

For let me act the best I can,

Tom, Tom, I am a ruin'd man.
Zounds! zounds! this piece of friendship costs me dear,
I always mend church windows-by the year!'


He was stretched at full length beside the ditch where he died. A half-finished house the back-ground seemed to rejoice in the fate of the poor animal; maliciously displayed on a board, whereon was legibly written

THIS CARCASS TO BE SOLD !" The sturdy thistle boldly reared its head in its vicinity, fearless of the donkey's pluck.

« 前へ次へ »