I remember, I remember, The mowing of the hay; Scythes sweeping through the heavy grass At breaking of the day. The haymakers in merry ranks Tossing the swaths so sweet, The haycocks tanning olive-brown In glowing summer heat. The reapers 'mid the ruddy wheat, The thumping of the flail, The winnowing within the barn By whirling round a sail. Long ere the whirr, and buz, and rush Became a harvest sound, Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes, Or ploughed the fallow ground. Our sparks flew from the flint and steel, No lucifers were known, Snuffers with tallow candles came To prune the wick o'ergrown. Hands did the work of engines then, But now some new machine Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams, And make the cakes, I ween. I remember, I remember, The homely village school, The dame with spelling book and rod, The sceptre of her rule. A black silk bonnet on her head, Buff kerchief on her neck, With spectacles upon her nose, And apron of blue check. Ah, then were no inspection days, No standards then were known, Children could freely make dirt pies, And learning let alone! Those Sundays I remember too, When Service there was one; For living in the parish then Of clergy there were none. And oh, I can recall to mind, The Church and every pew; William and Mary's royal arms Hung up in fullest view. The lion smiling, with his tongue Like a pug dog's hung out; The unicorn with twisted horn Brooding upon his rout. Exalted in the gallery high The tuneful village choir, With flute, bassoon, and clarionet, Their notes rose high and higher. They shewed the number of the Psalm In white upon a slate, And many a time the last lines sung Of Brady and of Tate. While far below upon the floor Along the narrow aisle, The children on then benches sat Arranged in single file And there the clerk would stump along And strike with echoing blow Each idle guilty little head That chattered loud or low. Ah! I remember many things, Old middle-aged, and new; Is the new better than the old, More bright, more wise, more true? The old must ever pass away, The new must still come in; When these new things are old to you Be they unstained by sin. So will their memory be sweet, A treasury of bliss To be borne with us in the days When we their presence miss. Trifles connected with the love Of many a vanished friend Will thrill the heart and wake the sense, For memory has no end! {Flowers: p46.jpg}