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The father's eyes the busy group survey,
And thus he chats the evening hour away.

"Twelve springs, twice told, have now approach'd Since, dame, I led you to the bridal bed.

[and fled,
Our worldly wealth was then, indeed, but light;
But now, praise Heav'n! we be in better plight.
A truthful helpmate to me hast thou been,
As ever bustled in the farming scene.

Our daughters we have school'd with costly care,
And none trip trimmer to the church or fair.
Full well my handy girls beseem their place,
Though I, their father, speak it to their face.
And then our boy,-born, sure, to cheer our hearts!
Dame, I can judge,—he has amazing parts.
Ne'er did my heart partake a purer joy,
Than on last Easter Sunday, from that boy;
Our good mild pastor catechis'd that day,
Our hamlet's children, in their best array;
But, when the question to my William came,
Did'st ever hear the like, my dainty dame ?
Slow and distinct he spoke, and modestly;
His voice was clear as parish-clerk's need be;
No word he miss'd, no stop he overrun,
And ev'ry eye was fix'd upon our son.
The pastor nodded-and-I think-he smil'd,
As if to say, 'Well done, my charming child!'
Now these be signals great, good dame, I say—
He'll not be five till second Rosley-day.

-But hold! my cattle must be corn'd and dress'd,
Then, in God's name, we'll all betake to rest."

OLD AGE.

FROM THE RUSTIC."

Last, to Old Age the rev'rence due we pay,
A theme congenial to the poet's day.

The wise he courts, but lightly holds the fool
Who makes old age the butt of ridicule.
With kindness, critics, view th' imperfect page,
And spare the poet for the love of age!

His dame no more, and many a year pass'd by,
Again the farmer courts th' observant eye.
Behold him now in intellect still clear,
Though verging close upon his ninetieth year.
The old man's arms no longer, now,

Can wield the spade, or guide the crooked plough ;
Yet rural works he ever holds most dear,
And joys to view the toils he cannot share.
He ev'ry day surveys the scene around,
To note the culture of th' adjacent ground.
"Ay, ay, this man is master of his trade,
Fences well order'd, furrows neatly laid;

Much here is seen to praise, scarce aught to blame;
This man is worthy of a farmer's name!
But what is here?"-as the next field he view'd;
"A crop of docks and thistles, rough and rude!
From ev'ry hedge extended briars creep ;
Woe to the hands that shall this harvest reap!
This fellow's void of neatness, sense or care;
A farmer! sloven! by this staff I swear!

I am no prophet, but may safely say

This man, ere rent-day, breaks, and runs away."
Thus he proceeds t' inspect the cultur'd scene,
Or halts to rest upon the head-land green.

'Tis Sunday; and yon bell's faint tinkling sound
Summons to worship all the parish round.
Our sightless friend we here each Sunday meet,
Led by his daughter to his bench-form'd seat;
To her exclusively this care's decreed,
And much she glories in the duteous deed.
The church-yard stile, of ancient date and rude,
Is worn with footsteps of the constant crowd;
Funeral yews their spreading branches wave,
And cast a solemn shade o'er ev'ry grave.
Groups on the yet unhillock'd ground repose,
Boast loud their courage, and their country's cause;
Or chat the village news, or plan a peace,

Or sink all France upon the narrow seas.

The bell has ceas'd; the service now takes place;
The pious pastor reads with lowly grace;
His heedful flock, with decorous, thoughtful air
Make due response, and ponder ev'ry prayer.
His text the preacher reads, and reads again,
That all his hearers may the words retain.
No studied flights are from him heard to flow;
He means t' instruct more than his parts to show;
His plain discourse, enforc'd with pious zeal,
His flock attentive hear, and, hearing, feel.
Nor with the sermon does the Sabbath end;
Further the duties of the day extend;

The Bible on each cottage table's spread,
And many a chapter in rotation read.

Perchance some reader, than the rest more wise,
A modest comment on the text supplies.
With Israel's King they chant the pious lay,
Their Maker's praise concludes the holy day.
Ere population throng'd yon northern land,
When forests grew where now fair townships stand,
Then own'd Northumbria's sons with pride,
The good old Gilpin as their heav'nly guide.
With honest zeal, and apostolic rage,

He loudly lash'd the vices of the age,

Spar'd not ev'n kings, when kings were found in fault,
And boldly charg'd them, "Govern as ye ought."
Houghton, thy kind and conscientious lord,
To worth and want assign'd the daily board;
Plenty still grac'd his hospitable hall,
And much he gave in charitable dole.
The sons of poverty still sought his door;
His good heart gloried to relieve the poor.
Behold our friend, now bending low and blind!

But still of vig'rous and retentive mind.
On sacred truths his steadfast hope relies,
And Faith assures his entrance to the skies.
Beyond this earth he looks with pious eye,
And pants to join heaven's immortality.
"Ere I go hence-my last advice receive-
To die in hope-you must in virtue live."
He clasp'd his hands, and heav'nward rais'd his eye,
And thus expir'd, without a groan or sigh.

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JOHN STAGG, THE BLIND BARD.*

OHN STAGG-better known throughout Cumberland as "blin' Stagg the fiddler"was born at Burgh-by-Sands, near Carlisle, in the year 1770. His father was a tailor who possessed a small property in the village.

Stagg was educated for the church; but at an early period of his life an accident occurred whereby he lost his sight, which entirely broke up his studies for the pulpit. He afterwards eked out an existence by keeping a library at Wigton; and with fiddling at merrie-neets, village wakes, and social parties. A curious contrast of life, verily, for a young parson to adopt! Anderson thus ludicrously introduces Stagg among the general scrimmage at the Worton Wedding:

"Blin' Stagg, the fiddler, gat a whack,
The bacon-fleek fell on his back;

And neist his fiddle-stick they brak,
'Twas weel it was nea waur;

For he sang, Whurry-whum, whuddle-whum,
Derry-eyden dee.'

*We have been principally indebted to Mrs. Mc. Minn of Manchester for the particulars contained in this brief sketch of her father's life.

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