And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always get wetted through ;

My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice

draggle-tail to my gown,

That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!

As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,

But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;

Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown;

One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows, about town.

But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,

And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane;

And while you're running all ducked and drowned, and pelted with sixpenny drops,

"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say;

ing shower for the crops

יין

66 a nice grow

But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another

new gown?

For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough, as you do with the hackneys in town.

Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts,

And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.

Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt

To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't;

For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost

daily the case,

Though they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face.

There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond,

And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till I walked in the duckweed pond:

Or perhaps when I've pulley-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down,

As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town.

Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank. a verdurous seat to find,

But, for my part, I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind;

For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown—

And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town.

As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work!

And ever since—and it's ten days ago-we've lived upon nothing but pork;

One Sunday except, and then I turned sick-a plague take all countrified cooks!

Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon-pies of the rooks?

Then the gooseberry wine, though it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree when it's down,

But it served me right, like a gooseberry fool, to look for champagne out of town!

To be sure, Cousin G. meant it all for the best, when he started this pastoral plan,

And his wife is a worthy domestical soul, and she teaches me all that she can,

Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn,

And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn;

But in making hay, though it's tanning work, I've found it more easy to make,

But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the rake.

I'd a country-dance too at harvest home, with a regular country clown,

But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town!

Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the

beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,

I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs.

The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs,

And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs.

I've been bumped in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down,

The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts-but they're kept in cages in town!

Another thing is the nasty dogs-through the village I hardly can stir,

Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;

And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down,

But neither the brutes nor the people, I think, are as civilly bred as in town.

Last night, about twelve, I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright,

But, instead of a family murder, it proved an owl that flies screeching at night.

Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing

In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing;

For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before, as endured for rurality's sake,

I've been stung by the bees, and I've sat among ants, and once-ugh! I trod on a snake!

And as to moskitoes, they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin,

I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in!

And, after all, ain't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill?

And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter wherever you will?

And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rusticallike and brown?

So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the

town.

Howsomever my mind's made up, and although I'm sure Cousin Giles will be vexed,

I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,

And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,

And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down!

STANZAS.

COMPOSED IN A SHOWER-BATH.

“Drip, drip, drip-there's nothing here but dripping."-Remorse, by COLERIDGE.

TREMBLING, as Father Adam stood
To pull the stalk before the Fall,
So stand I here, before the Flood,
On my own head the shock to call:
How like our predecessor's luck!
'Tis but to pluck-but needs some pluck!

Still thoughts of gasping like a pup,
Will paralyze the nervous power;

Now hoping it will yet hold up,

Invoking now the tumbling shower;-
But, ah! the shrinking body loathes,
Without a parapluie or clothes!

"Expect some rain about this time!"
My eyes are sealed, my teeth are set-
But where's the Stoic so sublime

Can ring, unmoved, for wringing wet?
Of going hogs some folks talk big—
Just let them go the whole cold pig!