When I was Head of Blunders school,
Before the age of stokers,
Compelled by rank to look a fool
Betwixt a pair of "chokers,"

Tom Tanner's father's wrote, to say
That we should both of us come,
To spend Saint Michael's holiday
At the Vicarage of Buscombe.

One trifle marred this merry plan—
I had contrived, though barr'd up,
To typify the future man,
By getting very hard up.

Oh bimetallic champion, some
New ratio doth seem proper,
When the circulating medium
Has fallen to half a copper.

Vile mammon hence! Thy low amount
Too paltry is to mope for;
The more we have in hand to count,
The less in heart to hope for.

Bright youth itself is golden ore,
And health the best gold-beater:
Without a sigh for two pence more,
We passed the gates of Peter.

A nod suffices surly Cop,
Who grins his bona fides;
As Cerberus preferred his sop
To Orpheus and Alcides.

But Mother Cop! Her cooking knack
Would conquer fifty Catos—
The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack,
And cream, and fried potatoes.

And rashers! Sweet Ulysses, say
Old Homer was mistaken;
The Goddess must have had her way,
And turned thee into bacon.

That Circe came, and wished us joy,
And said, "Goodbye, my dearie!"
Because I was an honest boy,
And pauper tneo Ære.

So Tom and I, like men on strike,
Shook hands with all our cronies,
Walked fifty yards, to save the pike,
And jumped upon our ponies.

Of apples, nuts, and goose galore
I chattered, like a stupid,
And thought of shooting coneys, more
Than being shot by Cupid.

At racing pace the turnpike road
(Great Western, in this quicker age)
Was swallowed up with whip and goad,
And soon we saw the Vicarage.

A sweet seclusion, to forget
The world and its disasters,
And fill the mind with mignonette,
Clove-pinks, and German asters;

In pensive, or in playful mood,
To saunter here, and dally
With leafy calm of solitude,
Or sunshine of the valley.

The Vicar loved his parish well,
And well was he loved by it;
Religion did not him compel
To harass and defy it

No price he charged for Heavenly love,
No discount on Resurgo;
His conscience told him—one side-shove
Is worth ten kicks a tergo.

But while the path of life he showed
To win the Christian guerdon,
No post was he, to point the road,
But a man to share the burden.

The lapse of years made manifest
The sanctuary of holy age;
As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest,
When time hath stripp'd the foliage.

The Vicar's wife was much the same,
In fairer form presented—
A lively, yet a quiet dame,
With home, sweet home, contented.

In parish, needs; and household arts,
A lesson to this glib age;
Well versed in pickles, jams, and tarts,
Piano, chess, and cribbage.

And well she loved the flowers, that speak
A language undefiled—
The flowers that lift the dimpled cheek,
Or droop the dewy eyelid.

Now, if she lingers after us,
What ground have we for snarling?
What act prohibits private buss,
Reserved for "Tommy darling"?

But who are these, so fresh and sweet,
In lovely hats and dresses,
Who half advance, and half retreat,
And peep through clouds of tresses?

"Come, dears!" They shyly offer hand,
Beneath the jasmin trellis;
"Say who you are, girls"—Charlotte, and
Her sister, Caroline Ellis!

Sweet Charlotte hath a serious face,
A gaze almost parental;
A type of every maiden grace,
But a wee bit sentimental.

Bright Caroline hath eyes that dance,
While buoyant airs engirdle her;
Her playful soul may love romance,
But not a creepy curdler.

Sweet Charlotte's are the deep grey eyes
That win profound devotion;
Bright Carry's flash, like azure skies,
With heliograph in motion.

As merry as the vintage ray,
That dances down the grape-rill;
As tender as the dews of May,
Or apple-buds of April.

Their charms are safe to grow more bright
For at least two lustral stages;
And so it seems not unpolite
To enquire what their age is.

"Last May, I was fifteen"; with glee
Replies the laughing Carry;
Sage Charlotte adds—"And I shall be
Seventeen, next February."

To the dining-room we walk on air,
Disdaining jots and tittles;
To feed seems such a low affair—
And yet, hurrah for victuals!

Could e'en a boy ply knife and fork,
In presence so poetic,
Until the vicar draws a cork,
And gives the sniff prophetic?

And when the evening games began,
Pope Joan, and Speculation—
What head could keep its poise and plan,
With the heart in palpitation?

Until, in soft white-curtained bed,
We sink to slumber lowly,
And angels fan the childish head,
With visions sweet and holy.

"Now I do declare," exclaimed our host,
As he strode back from the arish,
"Those railway fellows soon will boast
They have undermined my parish!

"Though none can say I have ever set
My face against improvement,
I cannot quite perceive as yet
The good of this new movement

"Like Hannibal, these folk confound
All nature's institutions,
And shun, with a great dive underground,
Parochial contributions!

"Come boys and girls, let us see their craft,
These hills of Devon will task it;
'Tis a pretty walk to White-Ball shaft,
If the boys will take a basket

"Dear wife; if your poor feet are right,
The miracles of this cycle
Will give you a noble appetite,
For the roast goose of Saint Michael."

In a twinkle, we had baskets twain
Of the right stuff for a journey,
And beautiful gooseberry Champagne,
Superior to Epernay,

What myriad joys of heart and mind
Flit in and out our brief age!
That day it was grand to see how kind
The sun looked through the leafage!

While the leaves for their part pricked their lips,
With a dewy simper waiting;
They were conscious of some amber tips—
But those Were his own creating.

Can the heart of man alone be dull,
And the mind of man be spiteful,
When all above is beautiful,
And all below delightful?

When Season bright, and Season rich,
Make bids against each other;
And earth, uncertain which is which,
Smiles up at Nature Mother.

The copse, the lane, the meadow path,
The valleys, banks, and hedges,
Were green with summer's aftermath,
And gold with autumn's pledges.

Wild rose hung coral beads above,
And satchel'd nuts grew nigh them;
Like tips of a little maiden's glove,
Ere ever she has to buy them.

But ours are not the maids to bite
A gore or gusset undone;
How neat they look, how trim and tight!
Those frocks were made in London.

Long time, we glance in awe and doubt,
Suppressing all frivolity;
Till the spirit of the age breaks out,
And all is mirth and jollity.

One flash, that stole from eyes demure,
Hath scattered all convention;
And then a pearly laugh makes sure
That fun is her intention.

The smiling elders march ahead;
We dance, without a fiddler,
We play at cross-touch, White and Red,
Tip-cat, and Tommy Tidier.

We laugh and shout, much more than speak,
No etiquette importunes;
The trees were made for hide-and-seek,
The flowers to tell our fortunes;

The hills, for pretty girls to pant,
And glow with richer roses;
The wind itself, to toss askant
The curls that hide their noses.

Then sprightly Carry shouts in French—
"All boys and girls, come nutting!"
We are slipping down a mighty trench—
Why, it is the Railway cutting I

Before us yawns a dark-browed arch,
Paved with a muddy runnel;
A thousand giant navvies march
To