The gentlemen dry breeched and coated. They, in the hostess’ shawls and gowns— We, in poor Isaac’s coats and breeches, Were much like masquerading clowns Hobnobbing Tam O'Shanter’s witches. But ne'ertheless the fare was good, The room was warm, the waiter handy, And all (_who would_) washed down their food With reeking draughts of “_toddied_ brandy.” Then round the hearth so cozily We drew, mirth, song and chat combining; And when our proper clothes were dry, The moon and stars were brightly shining. We cantered down by Skelwith Bridge, And round by Borwick fast we wended, Then scampering over High Cross’ ridge, We to our own fair vale descended. If e'er you pass o'er Wrynose hill, Where three fair counties meet together, Be sure to visit Dungeon Ghyll, And visit it in rainy weather! [Sidenote: A FAIR FINISH.] When you have had enough of Dungeon Ghyll, descend the mountain side, return to Mill-beck, re-mount your pony, and canter down the vale past pretty farm houses, green fields, and slate-quarries, to Chapel Stile, where my esteemed friend, Mrs Tyson, the youthful and blooming landlady, will unexceptionably administer to your physical wants, which, no doubt, are becoming importunate, whilst her husband will pay equal attention to the requirements of your pony. [Sidenote: FROM GAY TO GRAVE!] Having refreshed to your satisfaction in Mrs Tyson's best parlour, where the furniture of ancient oak bears such a polish as might tempt you to re-enact the story of Narcissus, you may proceed to examine the church yard, for here, again, the house of prayer and the house of refreshment are in juxta-position. In this little mountain burial-place, you will find, under a yew tree, a plain tombstone erected to the memory of a late incumbent—the Rev. Owen Lloyd, son of Mr Charles Lloyd, of Old Brathay, who was the early and life-long friend of Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth—a participator, I believe, in the much-ridiculed scheme of Pantisocrasy—an accomplished scholar, and an elegant, though little known, writer. You may find a very interesting sketch of his history and character in De Quincey’s papers on Lake Society, and to that I must refer you. On the humble tombstone of his excellent, but unhappy son, you may read the following epitaph, which, I need not tell you, is by “the aged poet, whose residence is the crowning honour of the district”: