Parson's la.s.s 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her bread: Why? fur 'e's n.o.bbut a curate, an' weant niver git naw 'igher; An' 'e's maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire.

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet.

An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi noan to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv.

Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy la.s.s an' 'er munny too, Maakin' 'em goa togither, as they've good right to do.

Couldn't I luvv thy m.u.t.h.e.r by cause o' 'er munny laad by?

Naay--for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reason why.

Ay, an' thy m.u.t.h.e.r says thou wants to marry the la.s.s, Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boath on us thinks tha an a.s.s.

Woa then, proputty, wiltha?--an a.s.s as near as mays nowt-- Woa then, wiltha? dangtha!--the bees is as fell as owt.

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence!

Gentleman burn! What's gentleman burn? Is it shillins an' pence?

Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best.

'Tisn' them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, Them as 'as coots to their backs an 'taakes their regular meals.

Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad.

Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot.

Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.

Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is munny was 'id.

But 's tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did.

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill!

Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see; And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee.

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick; But if 'thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to d.i.c.k.-- Coom oop, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'im saay-- Proputty, proputty, proputty--canter an' canter awaay.

_Lord Tennyson._

FIN DE SIeCLE

Life is a gift that most of us hold dear: I never asked the spiteful G.o.ds to grant it; Held it a bore--in short; and now it's here, I do not want it.

Thrust into life, I eat, smoke, drink, and sleep, My mind's a blank I seldom care to question; The only faculty I active keep Is my digestion.

Like oyster on his rock, I sit and jest At others' dreams of love or fame or pelf, Discovering but a languid interest Even in myself.

An oyster: ah! beneath the quiet sea To know no care, no change, no joy, no pain, The warm salt water gurgling into me And out again.

While some in life's old roadside inns at ease Sit careless, all unthinking of the score Mine host chalks up in swift unseen increase Behind the door;

Bound like Ixion on life's torture-wheel, I whirl inert in pitiless gyration, Loathing it all; the one desire I feel, Annihilation!

_Unknown._

THEN AG'IN

Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show, And a big enough town for his talents to grow, And the least bit a.s.sistance in hoein' his row, Jim Bowker, he said, He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name, An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame.

It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in--

But he had tarnal luck--eyerythin' went ag'in him, The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him; So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.

Jim Bowker, he said, Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come, An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum-- It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in--

But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less-- Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success, An' give fortune the blame for all our distress, As Jim Bowker, he said, Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich, We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.

It might be jest so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in--

_Sam Walter Foss._

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes, To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 't is gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

_Ben King._

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,--but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fist in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.