CCLII.

THE COUNTRY WEDDING.

ALL you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer,
Or ever cried "roast-meat" for having been there,
To crown your good cheer, pray accept of a catch,
Now Harry and Betty have struck up a match!

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

As things may fall out which nobody would guess,
So it happens that Harry should fall in with Bess:
May they prove to each other a mutual relief;
To their plenty of carrots, I wish 'em some beef!

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

She had a great talent at roast-meat and boil'd,
And seldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd;
Renown'd, too, for dumpling, and dripping-pan sop,
At handling a dish-clout, and twirling a mop.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

To kitchen-stuff only her thoughts did aspire,
Yet wit she'd enough to keep out of the fire:
And though in some things she was short of the fox,
It is said, she had twenty good pounds in her box.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Now we've told you the bride's rare descent and estate,
'Tis fit that the bridegroom's good parts we relate :
As honest a ploughman as e'er held a plough,

As trusty a carter as e'er cried, "Gee-ho!"

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

So lovingly he with his cattle agreed,

That seldom a lash for his whip he had need:
When a man is so gentle and kind to his horse,
His wife may expect that he'll not use her worse.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

With industry he has collected the pence,
In thirty good pounds there's a great deal of sense,
And though he suspected ne'er was of a plot,
None yet in good-humour e'er called him a sot.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

For brewing we hardly shall meet with his fellow, His beer is well hopt, clear, substantial, and mellow: He brew'd the good liquor, she made the good cake, And as they have brew'd even so let them bake.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Your shoes he can cobble, she mend your old clothes,
And both are ingenious at darning of hose:

Then since he has gotten the length of her foot,
As they make their own bed,-so pray let them go to't.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl,
Whilst rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal:
Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan,
Hit 'em each on the nose, with the hose, if ye can.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

May her wheel and his plough be so happily sped,
With the best in the parish to hold up their head:
May he load his own waggon with butter and cheese,
Whilst she rides to market with turkeys and geese.
Derry down, down, down, derry down!

May he be churchwarden, and yet come to church,
Nor when in his office take on him too much:
May she meet due respect, without scolding or strife,
And live to drink tea with the minister's wife!

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Rejoice ye good fellows that love a good bit,
To see thus united the tap and the spit;

For as bread is the staff of man's life, so you know
Good drink is the switch makes it merrily go.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Then drink to good neighbourhood, plenty, and peace,
That our taxes may lessen, and weddings increase:
Let the high and the low, like good subjects, agree,
Till the courtiers, for shame, grow as honest as we.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

Let conjugal love be the pride of each swain,
Let true-hearted maids have no cause to complain :

To the Church pay her dues, to their Majesties honour, And homage and rent to the lord of the manor.

Derry down, down, down, derry down!

CCLIII.

Unknown.

To hug yourself in perfect ease,

What would you wish for more than these?

A healthy, clean, paternal seat,

Well shaded from the summer's heat:

A little parlour-stove, to hold

A constant fire from winter's cold;

Where you may sit and think, and sing,

Far off from Court-" God bless the King!"

Safe from the harpies of the law,

From party rage, and great man's paw;
Have few choice friends to your own taste,—
A wife agreeable and chaste;

An open, but yet cautious mind,
Where guilty cares no entrance find;
Nor miser's fears, nor envy's spite,
To break the Sabbath of the night.
Plain equipage, and temperate meals,
Few tailor's, and no doctor's bills;
Content to take, as Heaven shall please,
A longer or a shorter lease.

William Bedingfield.

CCLIV.

WHEN I'm dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will say;
Here lies an old fellow, the foe of all care;

With the juice of the grape he would moisten his clay,
And, wherever he went, frolic follow'd him there.

With the young he would laugh,

With the old he would quaff,

And banish afar all traces of sorrow:

Old Jerome would say

66

'Though the sun sinks to-day,

It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow."

Tho' the snows of old age now may whiten his brow,
It never by gloom was a moment o'ercast;

His age, like the sunset that gleams on us now,
Chased away with its brightness the clouds to the last.
With the young he would laugh,

With the old he would quaff,

And banish afar all traces of sorrow:

Old Jerome would say

"Tho' the sun sinks to-day,

It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow."

Samuel Beazley.

CCLV.

THE TOPER'S APOLOGY.

I'M often ask'd by plodding souls,
And men of crafty tongue,

What joy I take in draining bowls,
And tippling all night long.

Now, tho' these cautious knaves I scorn,
For once I'll not disdain

To tell them why I sit till morn,
And fill my glass again :

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives
Life's picture's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade;
Some happier tint still rises there
With every drop I drain-
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry
No frolic flight will take;

But round a bowl she'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.

Then if the nymph will have her share

Before she'll bless her swain

Why that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes too,-
Run every pleasure down,—
Tried all extremes of fancy through,
And lived with half the town;

For me there's nothing new or rare,
Till wine deceives my brain-
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Then, many a lad I liked is dead,
And many a lass grown old;
And as the lesson strikes my head,
My weary heart grows cold.
But wine, awhile, drives off despair,
Nay, bids a hope remain-
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state
In these convulsive days,

I can't endure the ruin'd fate

My sober eye surveys;

But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare,
I see the gloom less plain-

And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass,
And sit with sober air,

I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
Who treads the path of care;

Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear
Some coxcomb's fribbling strain-
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too,
With different holds entwine?

While nought but death can some undo,
There's some give way to wine,

With me the lighter head I wear

The lighter hangs the chain

And that I think a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

And now I'll tell, to end my song,
At what I most repine;

This cursed war, or right or wrong,
Is war against all wine;