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Tho' my house is but small,

Yet to have none at all,
Would sure be a greater distress, Sir;

Shall my garden so sweet,

orchard so neat,
Be the prize of a foreign oppressor ?

On Saturday night,

'Tis still my delight, With

my wages to run home the faster;
But if War should come here,

look far and near,
But I never shall find a paymaster.

I've a dear little wife,

Whom I love as my life,
To lose her I shouldn't much like, Sir;

And 'twould make me run wild
To see my sweet child
With its head on the point of a pike, Sir,

I've my church too to save,

And will go to my grave, In defence of a church that's the best, Sir;

I've my Queen, too, God bless her!

Let no man oppress her,
For none has she ever opprest, Sir.

British laws for my guard

My cottage is barr'd, 'Tis safe in the light or the dark, Sir;

If the Squire should oppress,

I get instant redress;
My orchard's as safe as his park, Sir.

My cot is my throne,

What I have is my own,
And what is my own I will keep, Sir;

Should fighting come now,

'Tis true I may plough ; But I'm sure that I never shall reap, Sir.

Now do but reflect

What I have to protect,
Then doubt if to fight I shall choose, Sir;

Queen, Church, Babes, and Wife,

Laws, Liberty, Life,
Now tell me I've nothing to lose, Sir.

So I'll beat my ploughshare

To a sword or a spear,
Though I use it reluctantly then, Sir;

Like a lion I'll fight,

That my sword now so bright,
May soon turn to a ploughshare again, Sir.



The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground, 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,

The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room;
And looking grave—“You must," says he,
“Quit your fair bride, and come with me.”
“With you! and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried,

“Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard !
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go ;
This is my wedding day you know."

What more he urged, I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
“Neighbour,” he said “Farewell! no more
Shall death disturb your mirthful hour :
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for a future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you are summoned to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say ;

But, when I call again this way,
Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,

The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffer'd then, he bought and sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,

Uncall’d, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,

As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate

Once more before him stood.
Half-killed with anger and surprise,
“ So soon returned !” old Dobson cries.

“So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : Surely, my friend, you're but in jest !

Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore.” “So much the worse," the clown rejoin’d; To

spare the agèd would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is 't regal? ? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings ! But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.”

“ I know,” cries Death, “that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least : I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable ; Your years

have run to a great length; I wish you joy, tho', of your strength !"

Hold," says the farmer, “not too fast,
"I have been lame these four years past."

“ And no great wonder,” Death replies;
However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends.”

Perhaps,” says Dobson, “so it might,
But latterly, I've lost my sight.”

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“ This is a shocking story, faith;
Yet there's some comfort still,” says Death:
“Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news.”

“There's none,” cries he; “and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.”
“Nay, then! the spectre stern rejoin'd,

“ These are unjustifiable yearnings; If

you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your three sufficient warnings.
So come along, no more we'll part:"-
He said, and touch'd him with his dart;
And now, old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.



The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay sleeping on her little couch, that fair summer night. So thought her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night blessing. The bright flush of youth and hope was on her cheek. Her long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders ; a smile played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct murmur. She starts at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlid, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden-signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself, “ How could I have been so blind ? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child)! But he! oh, no; the grog shop will be my child's rival; it must not be.” Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be

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