Toiling, re-searching, circuiting, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees new work begun, But not each night its close; And not till Long Vacation comes Can he expect repose. Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge For the lessons he has taught! For a life so earnest and so pure, With good example fraught. And may we all learn this from him,-- How duty should be wrought. _Truth Christmas Number_, 1879. * * * * * THE VILLAGE BEAUTY. Under a spreading Gainsborough hat The village beauty stands, A maiden very fair to see, With tiny feet and hands, As stately, too, as if she owned The squire's house and lands. Her hair is golden brown and long, Her brow is like the snow, Her cheeks are like the rosy flush Left by the sunset's glow, She greets the lads with a careless look, She's the village belle, you know. Week in, week out, at morn and night, The young miller comes each day; "'Tis the nearest way to town," he says, But 'tis rather out of his way, And every night he seems to have Plenty of time to stay! And children, coming home from school Look in at the door, and know That the handsome fellow by her side Is pretty Nellie's beau, Who can hardly tear himself away, When he finds 'tis time to go. He goes on Sundays to the Church, And sits in his proper pew, But his eyes wander off to the transept near, Where he sees a charming view, For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best, With her bonnet of palest blue. He hears the parson pray and preach With his outward ear alone, For he only listens for Nellie's voice, And responds in a dreamy tone, And when she smiles at the carpenter near, He can't suppress a groan. Despairing, hoping, fearing, Onward thro' life he goes; Each morning he sees Nellie, And each evening, at its close; She even haunts him sleeping, And disturbs his night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught; Thus at the flirting time of life Our fortunes may be wrought, So we cannot be too careful Over every word and thought! L. P. From _The Dunheved Mirror_, Cornwall, March, 1880. * * * * * THE BRITISH M. P. (_A Song of St. Stephen's._) Under St. Stephen's high roof-tree The British M. P. sits: M. P. a mighty man is he, With sharp and seasoned wits, And an eloquence that, once set free, Would give opponents fits. Week in, week out, from noon to night, He must sit in silent woe, Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite, With measured boom and slow, Or SEXTON soars in furious flight When the morning lights burn low.