Wi’ my tol-de-rol, etc. This stranger, having a gold chain round his neck, swaggers in the farmers’ room on market-day, till-- He zets un in a big arm-cheer, And, bein’ precious deep, Sticks out his legs, drows back his arms, And “gammots” off to sleep. The farmers canvas him, and doubt if he has any watch to his chain. His friend, “by them not understood,” pulls out the chain, shows a piece of wood at the end, and puts it back. The stranger wakes; the farmers ask him “the time o’ day”; he excuses himself, on the plea that last night, having taken a glass too much, he did not wind up his watch. At this-- The varmers said, and did protest, Ez sure ez we’re alive, Thet thee dost not possess a watch Of pounds we’ll bet thee vive. The stranger covers the bets, pulls out a piece of wood, touches a spring, and shows a watch inside:-- ‘Bout vifty pounds thaay varmers lost, Which in course thaay hed to paay, And the bwoys run arter’em down the street, Wi’ “Gee us the time O’ daay.” Wi’ my tol-de-rol, etc. I did not, however, concur in the award myself. I should have given the prize for a love-song, a sort of rustic rendering of “Phyllis is my only Joy,” the chorus of which ran:-- For ef you would, I’m sure you could Jest let a feller know; Ef it strikes you as it likes you, Answer yes or no. The judges, however, followed, if (two being “varmers”) they did not thoroughly sympathise with, the obvious feeling of the crowded room. The patriotic songs, I noticed, had quite changed their character. They never were of the vulgar jingo kind in Wessex, but there used to be much of the old Dibdin and tow-row,-row ring about them. “The Poor Little Soldier Boy” may be taken as a specimen of the new style. His father dies of wounds; he ’lists; comes home; is discharged; wanders starving, till, opposite a fine gate, he sinks down, asking the unknown inmates how they will like to find him, “dead at their door in the morn.” At this crisis a lady appears, who takes him in and provides for him for life. The only lines I carried away were from a song even more pacific in tone than “The Poor Little Soldier Boy.” They ran:-- Ef I wur King o’ France, Or, better, Pope o’ Rome, I’d hev no fightin’ men abroad, Nor weepin’ maids at home. But there was an approach to “waving the flag” amongst the women, one of whom, a strapping damsel, sang:-- We’ve got the strength of will, And old England’s England still, And every other nation knows it--“rather”!