Fictions free from that Inspector Who is sent by RICHARD MAYNE, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane. Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with Wills; Leave the poisons in the phials―― And the money in the tills. _Punch_, December 1, 1866. ―――――――― A PSALM OF FARMING. _Bell’s Messenger, December 9th_, 1878. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG FARMER SAID TO THE OLD ’UN. (_After Wrongedfellar_). Tell me not in cheerful numbers You have known when times was wuss, Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley, And things will come right for us. Rents are too much, labour’s heavy, And our fair share’s not the goal, Landlords take all they can gather, Cow and calf, both mare and foal. Not enjoyment and not profit Seems our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us poorer than to-day. The world is big and steam is quick, But our hearts, though stout and brave, Do not like to leave the “dear” land, ’Cause our wives do look so grave! With the world’s broad field for farming, With the chance of a free life, Be not like dumb, driven donkeys, With such prospects have no strife. Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, Heart within and God o’erhead. Happy Colonists do teach us We can go and be the same, And, departing, leave behind us Wiser landlords, much more tame. Landlords, that perhaps another Year or so might make so wise, Might then know that ’tis quite certain Rents must fall as well as rise. Let us, then, be up and going, With a heart for any fate, Then succeeding, more persuading That ’tis good to emigrate. Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879. (A small pamphlet on Free Trade _versus_ Protection). ―――――――― A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN’S. Tell me not in mocking numbers We shall have to come to town, And resume our wonted slumbers, When the leaves are sere and brown. * * * * * Lives of patriots all remind us We can show uncommon _nous_, And, departing, leave behind us Relays that shall “keep a House.” Relays that perchance our Leaders O’er that legislative main May observe, while we are pleaders, Autumn leisure to attain. _Punch_, July 1, 1882. ―――――――― A PSALM OF BURIAL. Tell me not with words inflated Bodies were not meant to burn; For the moo-cow when cremated Doth to “frosted silver” turn. Not the grave-yard, not interment Is the cheapest, healthiest way; But to rob the worm preferment Finds with cultured men to-day.