[5] This is a folk-lore story which has its variants, Mr. Alfred Nutt tells me, in almost every country in Europe. The Lincolnshire version of it is given in Miss Peacock’s MS. collection of Lincolnshire folk-lore, of which she has most kindly sent me a copy, and it runs thus:— “There is a house in East Halton which is haunted by a hob-thrush.... Some years ago, it is said, a family who had lived in the house for more than a hundred years were much annoyed by it, and determined to quit the dwelling. They had placed their goods on a waggon, and were just on the point of starting when a neighbour asked the farmer whether he was leaving. On this the hobthrush put his head out of the splash-churn, which was amongst the household stuff, and said, ‘Ay, we’re flitting’. Whereupon the farmer decided to give up the attempt to escape from it and remain where he was.” The same story is told of a Cluricaune in Croker’s _Fairy Legends and Traditions_ in the South of Ireland. See _The Haunted Cellar_ in p. 81 of the edition of 1862, and as Tennyson has elsewhere in _Guinevere_ borrowed a passage from the same story (see _Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 152) it is probable that that was the source of the story here, though there the Cluricaune uses the expression, “Here we go altogether”. [6] 1842 and 1843. I that am. Now, I that am. [7] 1842. scored upon the part Which cherubs want. Edwin Morris, or The Lake This poem first appeared in the seventh edition of the _Poems_, 1851. It was written at Llanberis. Several alterations were made in the eighth edition of 1853, since then none, with the exception of “breath” for “breaths” in line 66. O Me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life! I was a sketcher then: See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge, Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock, With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires, Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimnied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long-learned names of agaric, moss and fern,[1] Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own—I call’d him Crichton, for he seem’d All-perfect, finish’d to the finger nail.[2] And once I ask’d him of his early life, And his first passion; and he answer’d me; And well his words became him: was he not A full-cell’d honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke.