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For this little maxim she shrewdly commends-
“ Good precept and practice should ever be friends !"
Mrs. Green, now and then, for an hour, sits in state
With some more lady friends--rich, of course—to

debate How the poor shall be clothed, and what taught, and

what rules It were best to enforce in the Charity Schools; All of which having over and over been turned, And, nothing decided, the meeting's adjourned; And this one opinion each lady defends" That precept and practice should ever be friends !”

In the street where resides our good friend Mrs. Brown Is a school, though not known to a tithe of the town, Which that lady supports from her own private purse; (And 'tis thought by her neighbours she might do

much worse ;) And if scholars, or parents, are ill or distressed, The reticule's sure to be had in request ; For this little maxim she shrewdly commends“Good precept and practice should ever be friends !"

Mrs. Green has a sympathy deep and refined,
It is not to parish or country confined ;
If a party of ladies propose a bazaar
To enlighten the natives of rude Zanzebar,
She is truly delighted to sanction their aim,
By giving wise counsel, and lending her name;
For this one opinion she stoutly defends-
“ That precept and practice should ever be friends !"

Mrs. Brown is a stranger to parties and sects,
The good of all classes she loves and respects;
Thinking little enough of profession or creed,
If the heart and the hand go not with it indeed;
While her prayers, and her purse, and her reticule, too,
For all sorts of Christians a kindness will do;

Along those banks my boyhood strayed,

And hearts were linked with mine ; Ah, many were the pranks we played,–

While youth yet seemed divine !

Then would we wander all the day

And dream the live-long night, Our very dreams so full of play

We scarcely missed the light.

My brothers bathed in yonder pool,

For it was clear indeed, Where now the moorhen holds her rule

And dabbles in the weed.

Then Harry clomb the topmost tree

And Willy swam the flood,
No fish in pond or brook went free,

No nest in all the wood.

What autumn nuttings up the glen!

What wild-flower hunts in May ! The very copse we rifted then

Is standing corn to-day.
Ah! now 'tis twice score years since both

Stood on that bridge, and I
Now turned from one to other, loth

To give the last good-bye.

Yet while we talked of distant days

And all that they should bear, Strange shadows fell before my gaze

And hushed me unaware.

But when we parted, trusting God,

I bid the boys be brave: Now one lies under battle sod

And one beneath the wave.

There stands the school-how oft I drew

My hand from off the latch,
Half-thinking of some task o'er-due,

Half of some coming match.

And then our dear old dame so wise

With glasses on the nose,
You'd think she had two pairs of eyes,

They watched us all so close.
Beneath yon yew she sleepeth well,

It was her chosen place;
And stranger lips must teach to spell

And sway the younger race.

Now some trim mistress fresh from school

Sits in th' old elbow-chair : Though she be prompt with plan and rule,

I grieve to see her there.

Sufficient for the simple heart,

That simple code of yore,
But they who play the modern part

Must learn the modern lore.

And there's the Sexton, rare old man,

Thy dealings with the dead,
Though stretching half a century's span,

Touch not thy heart or head.

And should thy grim task-master come

To call thee in at last, Though quick to help thy neighbours home,

Thou wilt not answer fast.

But when God takes me, fain would I

Be laid in earth by thee,
And may no village upstart try

His prentice spade for me.

The vicar too 'bides with us yet,

So long has been his reign, His every Sunday text is set

In order on my brain.

'Twas he that marked the cross of truth

Upon my infant brow; And his the lips that taught my youth

Its earliest offered vow.

My dying father blessed his name,

E'en with his passing breath, Then surely I, his child, may claim

His guidance unto death.
It cannot be our time is long,

So many gone before,
And only we of all the throng

Stand waiting on the shore.
Oh golden past, I dare not ask

That aught should be withdrawn,
Though bitter seems the evening task

Of gazing back to dawn.
The present is not wholly vain,

Nor future wholly dark,
And though mine eyes are dim, I strain

Still forward to the rk

Our time is short, God's rest is sure,

Though waiting seem so hard, But if so be the soul endure,

It hath its own reward.

Then let the stream run by my door

As in the former years, 'Tis dearer for these thoughts of yore, And these awakened tears.





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(Mr. Watts is the author of two small volumes of poetry,

Člare, the Good Seeker,” and “Fun, Feeling, and Fancy." As an entirely self-taught man, his productions may be characterized as remarkable; and he adds another instance to those of Gerald Massey and Edward Capern, that the present race of really working-men are as capable of advancing into the ranks of the literati as, in a past generation, were the Bloomfields and Clares. Mr. Watts has studied Thackeray's comic vein, in his Punch poetry, to some purpose, as our extract, which is worthy of the great humourist himself, will prove.]

ONCE at Hygate lived a fam'ly,

But for this unknown to fame,
Most respecterbullest people,

Notwithstandin' Bunks by name.

Mr. Wilyam Bunks, Ersquier,

Kep' a footman, Tomas Brown,
Wich the 'ousemaids did admier,

All the way to London town.


Tomas Brown 'ad bushee viskers,

And a kurly 'ed o’’air,
And a kipple o' karves hoose eakvals

Coodent be found any vare.

W'en he got behind the karridge,

And he riz upon their vews,
Five feet ten he stood afore 'em,

Five feet nine without his shoes.

blender ousemaids' eyes would glissen

As the karridge took its flight,
And fat kooks wot scarce cood voddle,

Arter it wood take a site,

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