SOME years ago, ere time and taste

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green,

And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and

myrtle;

And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to

say

"Our master knows you - you're expected."

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous

Barrow;

Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end, And warm'd himself in Court or Col

lege,

He had not gain'd an honest friend. And twenty curious scraps of knowl edge,

If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love and liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. His talk was like a stream, which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipt from politics to puns,

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels; or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound Divine,

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or show'd

That earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious