Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn,
And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of corn,
For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then I vow,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

I never knew at that time, go search the country round,
That butter ever sold for more than fourpence per pound,
And a quart of new milk for a penny, from the cow,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

How merry would the farmers then sing along the road,
When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load;
They'd drop into an ale-house, and drink "GOD speed" the plough,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content,

And well he entertained us, when my father paid his rent,

With flagons of good ale he'd drink, "Farmer, speed the plough," How happily we lived then to what we do now.

At length the squire died, Sir, O bless his ancient pate!. Another fill'd with pride, came as heir to the estate,

He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow, Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now.

May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart,
The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart;
To take the larger farms, and divide them into ten,
That we may live as happy now as we did then.

THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG.

J. HUGHES.

GOOD neighbours, since you've knock'd me down,
I'll sing you a song of songs the crown;
For it shall be to the fair renown

Of a race that yields to no man:

When order first on earth began,
Each king was then a husbandman;
He honour'd the plough,

And the barley-mow,

Maintained his court from off his farm,
And kept all round him tight and warm,
Like a right down Suffolk yeoman.

The plough was then a nation's boast,
And the pride of those who rul'd the roast;
And so felt one well worth a host-

A brave and a noble Roman.

Some here may call to mind his name,
But the thing is true, and it's all the same
In war and debate

He sav'd the state,

He made the haughty foe to bow,

And when all was done, went back to plough,
Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman.

Said Horace, "I'm grown sick of court,
And Cæsar's crack champagne and port;
To sing and pun for great folks sport

Is the life of a raree showman;

I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome,

To see how my farm goes on at home."
Now his parts were renown'd

The world around,

But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops,
And yet trust me if he grew such crops
As a thriving Suffolk yeoman.

Good freeholders, and stout were they
Who form'd our warlike realm's array,
When Europe trembled many a day

At the name of an English bowman;
The arm that drew the gallant bow
Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow;
They lov'd the tough yew,

And the spot where it grew,

For that was near our good old church;
"And we'll never leave her in the lurch,"
Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman.

When George the Third adorn'd our throne,
His manly ways were just our own;
Then Britons stood in arms alone,

And defied each foreign foeman.

The good old king, he fear'd his GOD,
But he fear'd no man on earth who trod;
He lov'd his farm,

And he found a charm

In every useful sterling art,

And he wore the home-spun coat and heart
Of a manly Suffolk yeoman.

Since then the brave, the wise, and great,
Have been plain folks of our estate,

We claim a pride of ancient date,

A pride that will injure no man; Though Scotch philosophers and Jews Would starve us out, and our name abuse, We'll stand by the king,

The church, and each thing

That our loyal fathers honour'd most;
And such shall be the pride and boast
Of a manly Suffolk yeoman.

A WISH.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring,

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
ELIZA COOK.

THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle!
The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn,
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band!
The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told,
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold:
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there:
GOD speed it well; and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust;
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band!

CONVIVIAL SONGS.

HE Bacchanalian and Convivial Songs of the English people are not of a high order of merit. The most elegant of them are translations, or paraphrases, of the Odes of Anacreon, the only author who has eminently succeeded in wreathing the flowers of fancy around the drinking-cup, or in rendering even tolerable, to the taste of a refined and civilized people, the praises of intoxication. But in borrowing from Anacreon, the