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5. KAYMAKERS. All are companions in the general glee ; Authority, hard-lavoured, frowns not there. Soine, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick, W!ilst on its top doth stand the parish toast In loose attire and swelling ruddy cheek. With taunts and harmless mockery she receives The tossed-up heaps from fork of simple youth, Who, staring on her, takes his arm away, While half the load falls back upon himself. Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar : The mower busied on the distant lawn, The carter trudging on his dusty way, The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss’d in air, And roar across the field to catch her notice : She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head. And then renews her work with double spirit. Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil.
CCLXV. JAMES HURDIS, 1763–1801.
INSTINCT OF BIRDS.
I love to see the little goldfinch pluck
The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Down, down a thousand fathoms deep,
Among the sounding seas I go ; Play round the foot of every steep,
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow. There, within their secret caves
I hear the mighty rivers roar, And guide their streams through Neptune's waves,
To bless the green earth's inmost shore. In coral bowers I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move. And oit, at midnight's stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave, I love to prove my
power, While floating on the moonlit wave. And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans O’er the ship's side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak uo mortal means. Sometimes a single note I swell,
That softly sweet at distance dies,
And choral voices round me rise.
who silent bend O’er the high deck, but list in vain ;
My song is hush’d, my wonders end. CCLXVII. REV. J. GRAHAME, 1765--1811. THE SHIPWRECK'D SAILOR.
Motionless he sits, As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days
With wandering eye on all the watery waste,
THE FAKENHAM GHOST.
The lawns were dry in Euston Park,
(Here truth inspires my tale); The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale. Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made
And hail its willow shade.
But follow'd faster still ;
That whisper'd on the hill ;
Bespoke a peopled shade;
And hovering circuits made.
That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.
Came o'er her troubled mind;
Come patting close behind.
Upon the gloomy plain !
She heard the same again.
For when the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a prayer: Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do : When through the cheating glooms of night
A monster stood in view.
It follow'd down the plain !
And said her prayers again.
The white park gate in view;
That ghost and all passed through.
Her heart-strings like to crack ; For much she feared the yrisly ghost
Would leap up on her back.
As it had done before :
She fainted at the door.
Out came her daughter dear;
Of what they had to fear. The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen. An ass's foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park; And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had followed in the dark. No goblin he, no imp of sin ;
No crimes had ever known; T'hey took the shaggy stranger in,
And reared him as their own. His little hoofs would rattle round
Upor the cottage floor ;
The matron learnt to love the sound
That frighten’d her before.
And 'twas his fate to thrive:
And kept the joke alive.
And some conviction too:
Perhaps was just as true.
THE VILLAGE SCOLD.
I'the thrang o' stories tellin',
Shakin' hands and jokin' queer,
Mungo, is our Watty here ?"
Darted through him like a knife :
In came Watty's scoldin' wife.
O ye snuffy drucken sow!
Drinkin' here wi' sick a crew !
Drink's your night and day's des.ro
Fling your whiskey i' the fire."
Paid his groat wi' ,little din,
Flytin' a' the road behin'.
aggy curst them ane and a',
Lost her bauchels i' the snaw.
Wi' a face as white's a clout,