"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original—written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

Teddy Band to Miss Hanson.

MÂm,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeÄzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mÂ-be, I mid not be afeard ta z zummet ta you that you, mÂm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother d ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' th zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' HÂ-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zÂt anow, bit, vor Âll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mÂm. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry Âterward that I did'n, bin you be Âlways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mÂ-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mÂm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

MÂm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wÂll
Roun which tha ivy clims;
My Pally at tha night-vÂll
Er crappin viËr trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel
I zee tha blankers rise,
Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin,
An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty,
An snaws dreav vast along,
I hurry whim—tha door tine,
An cheer er wi' a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties,
CÂlls Âll tha birds abroad;
An wrans an robin-riddicks,
Tell Âll the cares o' God,

I zit bezides my cot-door
After my work is done,
While Pally, bizzy knittin,
Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is passin,
An narras dÂs be vine,
I drenk tha sporklin cider,
An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver,
How zweet tha smill o' hÂ;
How zweet is haulsom labour, ^
Bit zweeter Pall than thÂ.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?—
Tha nawbles o' tha land?
Th can't be moor than happy,
An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I Âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that th mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng cÂlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when th da hire tha yell o' tha houns thÂ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mÂ-be th mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur,
Jitch plazen there be many a scaur
In Zummerzet's girt gorden;
(Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea,
Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be)
There liv'd a young churchwarden.

A zim'd delighted when put in.
An zaw a thawt a ood begin
Ta do hiz office duly:
Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther w—
Tha Porish o'ten cÂlled,—a girt bell sheep
Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep—
Put vooÄth ther hons iz coose to stÂ,
Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta VisitÂtion
Ta be sworn in;—an than 'twar nÂtion
Hord that a man his power should doubt,—
An moor—ta try ta turn en out!
"Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden,
I dwon't care vor ye Âll a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.—Wevets here
Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there
Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wÂll;

Tha Âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too,
That Peter's maricle th scase cood view.
Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read]
Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread]
Nor had tha Creed
A lain or letter parfit, grate or smÂll.
'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em Âll.

I've tawld o' wevets—zum o'm odd enow;
Th look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow,
An like a skin war stratched across tha corners;
Tha knitters o' tha porish tÂk'd o knittin
Stocking wi' 'em!—Bit aw, how unbevittin
All tÂk like this!—aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd
Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd.
Tha wÂlls once moor look'd bright.
Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer
An Glazier too,
Put vooÄth his powers,
(His workin made naw little scummer!)
In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers.
Tha chancel, church and Âll look'd new,
An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish;
Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new
Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true!
Tha Âltar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel
Upon tha church,
Which booÄth athin an, tower an all, athout
Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about;
Tha walls rejÂic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible.
Bit vor all that, th left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon.
I mean, of Âll tha expense th ood'n p a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin;
Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin;
Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwÂin
A power of money—Tha Painter's bill
Made of itzel a pirty pill,
Ta zwell which Âll o'm tried in vain!
Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow]
Jitch gillded pills th cood'n corry.
An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why,
Th laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong;
(Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong)
A should at vust
A cÂll'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust
To Porish generasity; an zaw
A voun it: I dwon' knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers;
Zum zed a LÂyer gid en bad advice;
A-mÂ-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice.
LÂyers o' advice be seltimes misers
Nif there's wherewi' ta pÂ;
Or, witherwise, good bwye ta LÂyers an tha LÂ.

A Vestry than at last war cried—
A Vestry's power let noÄne deride—
When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out,
Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese!
All wonder'd what cood be about,
An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese;
Why—ta make a Rate
Vor tha church's late
RepairÂtion.
A grate norÂtion,
A nÂtion naise tha nawtice made,
About tha cost ta be defray'd
Vor tha church's repairÂtion.

Tha Vestry met, Âll naise an bother;
One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther.
When th war tir'd o' jitch a gabble,
Ta bÂl na moor not one war yable,
A man, a little zÂtenfare,
Got up hiz verdi ta delcare.
Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwÂin
Ta meet in Vestry here in vÂin.

Let's come to some determination,
An not tÂk Âll in jitch a fashion.
Let's zee tha 'counts. A snatch'd tha book
Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look.
Tha, book war chain'd clooÄse to his wrist;
A gid en slily jitch a twist!
That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out,
"You'll break my yarm!—what be about?"

Tha man a little zÂtenfare,
An Âll tha Vestry wide did stare!
Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed
Money brought gwÂin zaw bad. What need
War ther tha Âltar-piece ta titch?
What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch?
What good war't vor'n ta mend
Tha Ten Commandments?—Why did he
Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee!
Ther war naw need
To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed.
I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend;
Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

Th Âll, wi one accord,
At tha little zÂtenfare's word,
Agreed, that, not one varden,
By Rate,
Should be collected vor tha late RepairÂtion
Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.