Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be driven;

But hoped they still would please to go to

heaven.

Each week he paid his visitation dues; Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news;

Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled;

Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held. Or placed in some great town, with lacquered shoes,

Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,

He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild,

Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled;

At rich men's jests laughed loud, their stories praised,

Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed;

66

DARBY AND JOAN

I

WHEN Darby saw the setting sun, He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, My work is done, I'll go to bed." "My work is done!" retorted Joan, "My work is done! your constant tone; But hapless woman ne'er can say,

My work is done,' till judgment day.

You men can sleep all night, but we Must toil.". "Whose fault is that?" quoth he.

"I know your meaning," Joan replied,
"But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied;
I will go on, and let you know
What work poor women have to do:
First, in the morning, though we feel
As sick as drunkards when they reel,
Yes, feel such pains in back and head
As would confine you men to bed,
We ply the brush, we wield the broom,
We air the beds, and right the room;
The cows must next be milked- - and then
We get the breakfast for the men.
Ere this is done, with whimpering cries,
And bristly hair, the children rise;
These must be dressed, and dosed with
rue,

And fed and all because of you:
We next" Here Darby scratched his

head,

Old Darby rose and seized the broom
And whirled the dirt about the room:
Which having done, he scarce knew how,
He hied to milk the brindled cow.
The brindled cow whisked round her tail
In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.
The clown, perplexed with grief and
pain,

Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again:
When turning round, in sad amaze,
He saw his cottage in a blaze:

For as he chanced to brush the room,
In careless haste, he fired the broom.
The fire at last subdued, he swore
The broom and he would meet no more.
Pressed by misfortune, and perplext,
Darby prepared for breakfast next;
But what to get he scarcely knew —
The bread was spent, the butter too.
His hands bedaubed with paste and flour,
Old Darby labored full an hour:
But, luckless wight! thou couldst not
make

The bread take form of loaf or cake.
As every door wide open stood,
In pushed the sow in quest of food;
And, stumbling onwards, with her snout
O'erset the churn the cream ran out.
As Darby turned the sow to beat,
The slippery cream betrayed his feet;
He caught the bread trough in his fall,
And down came Darby, trough, and all.
The children, wakened by the clatter,
Start up, and cry, "Oh! what's the mat-
ter?"

Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed,
And hapless Darby bawled aloud,
"Return, my Joan, as heretofore,
I'll play the housewife's part no more:
Since now, by sad experience taught,
Compared to thine my work is naught;
Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take,
Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake,
And never more transgress the line

Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.

Then Joan, return, as heretofore,
I'll vex thy honest soul no more;
Let's each our proper task attend
Forgive the past, and strive to mend."

Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring!

And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.

Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;

Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;

The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,

And spicewood and sassafras budding together:

Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair!

Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure;

The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air

That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.

He flits through the orchards, he visits each tree,

The red-flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms;

He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their

THE man in righteousness arrayed,
A pure and blameless liver,
Needs not the keen Toledo blade,
Nor venom-freighted quiver.
What though he wind his toilsome way
O'er regions wild and weary
Through Zara's burning desert stray,
Or Asia's jungles dreary:

What though he plough the billowy deep

By lunar light, or solar,
Meet the resistless Simoon's sweep,
Or iceberg circumpolar!

In bog or quagmire deep and dank
His foot shall never settle;

He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc,
Or Popocatapetl.

On Chimborazo's breathless height
He treads o'er burning lava;
Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight,
The deathful plant of Java.
Through every peril he shall pass,
By Virtue's shield protected;
And still by Truth's unerring glass
His path shall be directed.

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last,
While strolling down the valley,
Defenceless, musing as I passed
A canzonet to Sally,

A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout,
Forth from the thicket bounded-
I clapped my hands and raised a shout-
He heard and fled confounded.

Tangier nor Tunis never bred

An animal more crabbed;
Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed
A monster half so rabid;
Nor Ararat so fierce a beast

Has seen since days of Noah;
Nor stronger, eager for a feast,
The fell constrictor boa.

Oh! place me where the solar beam Has scorched all verdure vernal; Or on the polar verge extreme,

Blocked up with ice eternal Still shall my voice's tender lays Of love remain unbroken; And still my charming Sally praise, Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.