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“GET úp, fool, from your bended knee;
Gód has no eyes and cannot see.”
“But mén have eyes and see me kneel;
To kneél to God is quite genteel."
“Then kneél away, but don't grimace;
An úgly thing 's a long-drawn face.”
“I bég excúse; it 's so they paint
Madonna, Magdalen and saint.”
“At least your óratory spare,
The wheedling rhétoric you call prayer;
Or for the Gód blush, who, to do
What is right, needs to be coaxed by you."
“My rhétoric were indeed misplaced,
Of good breath a mere wanton waste,
Hád my by-stánding friends no ear
The húmble, suppliant voice to hear,
In which I let th' Omniscient know
What we think of him here below,
And hów, if he'd few blunders make,
Mé for his counsellor he should take,
And, in all things requiring nice
Discrimination, my advice
Exáctly following, hímself spare
Responsibility and care,

And mé scarce léss anxiety
Lest áll should not well managed be."
“Incomparably honest friend,
Pray ón; my lécture 's at an end;
There 's not a word you 've said but's true;
I 'll kneel beside you and pray too."



Jack and Jock once mét each other
On a road that east and west lay,
Pósting both as fást as áble,
Westward Jáck, and Jock due eastward:

“Whíther, Jáck, in súch a húrry ?”
Said Jock, stópping short and greeting.
“Straight to heáven,” repliéd Jack hásty,
“Túrn about, Jock, and come with me."

Whát! to heaven?” said Jock astonished;
“Jáck, you can't to heaven get that way;
Heaven lies eastward every child knows
Come with mé, I 'm bound straight for it."

“Báh!” said Jáck, “you 're súrely jóking;
Whý, it 's straight to hell you 're going.
If you 're wise you 'll túrn with mé, Jock;
Read the signpost: HEAVEN *** MÍLES EAST.”

“Whát care Í, Jack, fór your signpost ?
All my friends have still gone this way;
Father, mother, bóth grandfathers,
Áll my úncles, aúnts and cousins.”

“For your friends I cáre as little,
Jóck, as you care for my signpost,
Bút to end our difference lét us
Leáve it to the tóll - bar keéper.”

To the tóll - bar Jáck and Jóck go,
Dóff their bónnets, put the question:
“Gentlemén,” repliés the tóll- man,
“Please both of you pay the tóll first.”

Paid the tóll, says the toll - keeper
With a shrewd shrug of his shoúlders :
“Gentlemen, you're free to take now
Either road to heaven or neither.”

Só the two friends followed on straight
Each the way he had been going,
And I doúbt much either 's nearer
Heáven today than when he started.


"My lord bishop," said the béggar,
« Thou and I in Christ are brethren,
Lét us therefore live as brothers;
Í 'll begin, do thoú as I do.

“Hére 's one hálf my crust and bacon,
Hére 's one of my twó sixpences;
Nów give me one hálf the income
of thy see and presentations."

“Yés, beyond doubt we are brethren,”
Saíd the bishop with a gráve smile,
“Ánd have bóth received our pórtions
From the same impártial Párent.

“To divide again were impious
Dísconténtedness on our parts ;
Keep thou thine as I will mine keep,
Ánd let bóth praise thé 'great giver.

“Bút as Í am boúnd in fairness
Tó acknowledge Í 've the lion's share,
Take this cháritáble shilling
Ánd my blessing, and no móre say.”

Walking from CANTERBURY to SITTINGBOURNE (KENT), Nov. 23, 1854.

TONGUELESS thou 'st yét a triple voice, gray lock;
For, first, thou speakest of a time when soft,
Brown, glóssy, curly hair my temples shaded;
When súpple and elastic were my joints,
My strong heart full of joy and hope and courage,
My infant reáson breathless in pursuit
Of fúgitive, light-foot, ignis - fatuus Knowledge;
A time when in my curling locks my mother
Her fingers used to wreathe and smiling say: -
“Heaven bléss my boy and make him a good man.'
And next thou speakest of a time, gray lock,
When prématúrely with my yet brown hair
White hairs began to mingle, and my mother
With ténder hand would pluck them and say sighing:
“Thése might have wéll a little longer waited,
And spáred the sorrow to a mother's eyes.”.
And I would smile, and press her hand and say:
“Bé of good heart; we ’ve many a year before us,
Móther and son, to live, and love each other,
My vigorous manhood sheltering and protecting
Hér in whose shélter sáfe I grew to manhood.”
And lást, thou speakest of a time, gray lock
A tíme, alás! no longer in perspective,
Distant and dím and dreaded, but here present
When the kind fingers, that in my brown curls

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