"Tuffer Redivivus" adds :-" This, the poor labourer thinks, crowns all; a good fupper must be provided, and every one that did anything toward the Inning, muft now have fome reward, as ribbons, laces, rows of pins to boys and girls, if never so small, for their encouragement, and to be fure plumb-pudding. The men must now have fome better than beft drink, which with a little tobacco, and their screaming for their largeffes, their business will foon be done."

Some quaint people who love the "good old times," even now rejoice to hear the jovial fong of the harveft men :

We have ploughed, we have sowed,
We have reaped, we have mowed,
We have brought home every load,
Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home!

But there are " potent, grave, and reverend fignors" now-a-days who seek to celebrate the harvest home by interesting lectures on "Common Things," and fage advice to

A merry and an artless throng, whose souls
Beam through untutored glances-

to patronize Savings' Banks, and fubfcribe to Burial Societies. Such lines as thofe of Tennyfon, brother of the Poet Laureate, are more fuited to the merrie days of England, than to the present grim and iron age of Political Economy :

Come, let us mount the breezy down,

And hearken to the tumult blown

Up from the campaign and the town.

E

The harvest days are come again;
The vales are surging with the grain;

The merry work goes on amain;

Pale streaks of cloud scarce veil the blue,

Against the golden harvest hue

The Autumn trees look fresh and new;

Wrinkled brows relax with glee,
And aged life they laugh to see
The sickness follow o'er the lea;

I see the little kerchief'd maid,
With dimpling cheek and bodice staid,
Mid the stout striplings half afraid;

Her red lip and her soft blue eye
Mate the poppy's crimson dye
And the cornflowers waving by;

I see the sire with bronzed chest ;

Mad babes amid the blithe unrest
Seem leaping from the mother's breast;

The mighty youth and supple child
Go forth, the yellow sheaves are piled,
The toil is mirth, the mirth is wild!

Old head and sunny forehead peers
O'er the warm sea, or disappears,
Drown'd amid the waving ears;

Barefoot urchins run, and hide
In hollows, 'twixt the corn, or glide
Towards the tall sheaf's sunny side;