ST. MICHAEL'S CHAIR.

TERRILY, merrily rung the bells,

MER

The bells of St. Michael's tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife
Arrived at St. Michael's door.

Richard Penlake was a cheerful man,
Cheerful and frank and free;

But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife,
For a terrible shrew was she.

Richard Penlake a scolding would take,

Till patience availed no longer;

Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take, And show her that he was the stronger.

Rebecca his wife had often wished

To sit in St. Michael's chair;
For she should be the mistress then
If she had once sat there.

It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick;
They thought he would have died:
Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life,
As she knelt by his bedside.

"Now hear my prayer, St. Michael! and spare My husband's life," quoth she;

"And to thine altar we will go,

Six marks to give to thee."

Richard Penlake repeated the vow;
For woundily sick was he:

"Save me, St. Michael! and we will go,
Six marks to give to thee."

When Richard grew well, Rebecca his wife
Teased him by night and by day:
"O mine own dear! for you I fear,
If we the vow delay."

Merrily, merrily rung the bells,

The bells of St. Michael's tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife Arrived at St. Michael's door.

Six marks they on the altar laid,
And Richard knelt in prayer:
She left him to pray, and stole away
To sit in St. Michael's chair.

Up the tower Rebecca ran,

Round and round and round: 'T was a giddy sight to stand atop, And look upon the ground.

"A curse on the ringers for rocking
The tower!" Rebecca cried,

As over the church battlements
She strode with a long stride.

"A blessing on St. Michael's chair!'
She said, as she sat down:
Merrily, merrily rung the bells,

And out Rebecca was thrown.

Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought,
That his good wife was dead:

"Now shall we toll for her poor soul
The great church-bell?" they said.

"Toll at her burying," quoth Richard Penlake, “Toll at her burying," quoth he;

"But don't disturb the ringers now,

In compliment to me."

Robert Southey.

I

St. Minver.

THE PADSTOW LIFEBOAT.

SING no more of belted knights,

Or the pure blood they boast;
My song is of the sterner stuff

That guards our native coast:
The hearts of oak that grow all round

The islands where we dwell,

Whose names have less of Norman sound,
And easier are to spell.

At nine A. M., wind west-northwest,

And blowing half a gale,

Round Stepper Point a schooner came,

But under close-reefed sail.

"T is a wild place to fetch, the waves Break on the Doombar sands,

And from the hills the eddying winds
Perplex the steadiest hands.

And now she glides in water smooth,
But the ebb-tide runs fast,

And suddenly the land-wind blows,
And shakes each bending mast:
Soon back to sea she drifts away,
Nearing St. Minver's shore;

Then grounds, and o'er her deck the high
Atlantic billows pour.

Man, man the lifeboat! Many a crew
Her pride has been to save

In a stronger gale and darker hour,

And from a wilder wave.

Their names are: Harris, Truscott, French,
Hills, Cronnell, Brenton, May,
Varcoe, Bate, Bennett, Malyn, and
Intross and coastguard Shea.

All trusty men of pluck and strength,
And skill to guide withal;

Some more than some had proved their worth,

As chance to them did fall:

Shea for his human chivalry

The Imperial medal wore;

Intross and Varcoe's breasts the words

Crimea," "Baltic," bore.

One more, Hills, claims brief mention here,
No sturdier man than he;

In quest of Franklin's bones he went
To the dread Arctic Sea.

Such was the staple of the crew,
Who worked with earnest will;
To see them breast the awful waves
Made the spectators thrill.

Towards the doomed ship their way they cleave,

But may not reach her side;

And then to Polzeath Bay they steer,

But stronger runs the tide :

The breakers, as they heave and burst,

The buoyant boat submerge;

O'erturned she rights,

- again o'erturned,

She drifts upon the surge!

The watchers from Trebethic Cliff
And high Pentire rush down,
As dead or gasping on the rocks
The dauntless crew are thrown:
Of the thirteen but eight survive!

Shea, Truscott, breathe no more;
Varcoe and Cronnell, last Intross,
Come lifeless to the shore.

The schooner's crew, five souls in all,
Save one the shore did reach,
Just where the stranded vessel lay,

On the Trebethic beach.

He, at the moment when she struck,
Was jerked into the wave;

And well he swam in sight of all,

But none was nigh to save.