Chapter 6

For a twelvemonth or more things went on pretty straight; Tom went early to work, and was never home late; But after that time a sad change, it would seem, Came over the spirit of Emily's dream.

The Rector missed Tom from his place in the choir; In the evening his wife sat alone by the fire; When her husband came home he was never too early, And his manner was dull, and at times even surly.

He was late in the autumn in sowing his wheat; His bullocks and sheep had disease of the feet; His sows had small litters; his taters went bad; And he took _just a glass_ when he felt rather sad.

The Rector's "good lady" was passing one day, And looked in, her usual visit to pay-- "How dy'e do, Mrs. Smith? Is the baby quite well? Have you got any eggs, or young chickens to sell?"

But Emily Smith couldn't answer a word; At length her reply indistinctly was heard; "I'm all of a mullock [1], it's no use denying--" And with that the poor woman she burst out a crying.

Then after a time with her apron she dried The tears from her eyes, and more calmly replied, "I don't mind confessing the truth, ma'am, to you, For I've found in you always a comforter true.

Things are going to ruin; the land's full o' twitch; There's no one to clean out a drain or a ditch; The gates are all broken, the fences all down; And the state of our farm is the talk of the town.

We've lost a young horse, and another's gone lame; Our hay's not worth carting; the wheat's much the same; Our pigs and our cattle are always astray; Our milk's good-for-nothing; our hens never lay.

Tom ain't a bad husband, as husbands do go; (That ain't saying much, as I daresay you know) But there's one thing that puts him and me out o' gear-- He's always a craving for _one glass of Beer_.

He never gets drunk, but he's always half-fuddled; He wastes all his time, and his wits are all muddled; "We've notice to quit for next Michaelmas year-- All owing to Tom and his _one glass of Beer_!"

MORAL.

My friends, I believe we shall none of us quarrel If I try from this story to draw out a moral; Tom Smith, I am told, has now taken the pledge; Let us hope he will keep the right side of the hedge.

But because men like Tom find it hard to _refrain_, It's hard that we temperate folk should _abstain_; Tea and coffee no doubt are most excellent cheer But a hard-working man likes his _one glass of Beer_.

What with 'chining [2] and hoeing and ploughing and drill, A glass of good beer will not make a man ill; But one glass, like poison, you never must touch-- It's the glass which is commonly called _one too much_!

[1] Muddle.

[2] Machining, _i.e._ threshing by machinery.

BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.--III.

FRED AND BILL.

Two twins were once born in a Bedfordshire home; Such events in the best managed households may come; Tho', as Tomkins remarked in a voice rather gruff, "One child at a time for poor folks is enough."

But it couldn't be helped, so his wife did her best; The children were always respectably drest; Went early to school; were put early to bed; And had plenty of taters and bacon and bread.

Now we all should suppose that the two, being twins, Resembled each other as much as two pins: But no--they as little resembled each other As the man in the moon is "a man and a brother."

Fred's eyes were dark brown, and his hair was jet black; He was supple in body, and straight in the back, Learnt his lessons without any trouble at all; And was lively, intelligent, comely, and tall.

But Willy was thick-set; and freckled and fair; Had eyes of light blue, and short curly red hair; And, as I should like you the whole truth to know, The schoolmaster thought him "decidedly slow."

But the Parson, who often came into the school, Had discovered that Willy was far from a fool, And that tho' he was not very quick in his pace, In the end "slow and steady" would win in the race.

Years passed--Fred grew idle and peevish and queer; Took to skittles, bad language, tobacco, and beer: Grew tired of his work, when it scarce was begun; Was Jack of all trades and the master of none.

He began as a labourer, then was a clerk; Drove a hansom in London by way of a "lark;" Enlisted, deserted, and finally fled Abroad, and was thought by his friends to be dead.

But Willy meanwhile was content with his lot; He was slow, but he always was found on the spot; He wasted no money on skittles and ale, But put by his pence, when he could, without fail.

To the Penny Bank weekly his savings he took, And soon had a pretty round sum in his book: No miser was he, but he thought it sound sense In the days of his youth to put by a few pence.

And so he got on; he was no millionaire, But he always had money enough and to spare; Could help a poor friend; pay his rent and his rate; And always put silver at church in the plate.

His brother, meantime, who was thought to be dead, Had across the Atlantic to Canada fled; Then had gone to New York; then New Zealand had tried; But always had failed thro' perverseness and pride.

He might have done well, but wherever he went, As soon as his money came in, it was spent; As of old he tried all trades, and prospered in none, For he thought that hard work was "a poor sort of fun."

Then he heard of "the diggings," and there tried his luck; He was never deficient in smartness and pluck; And by means of some work, and more luck, in a year He managed to make fifteen hundred pounds clear.

Then he thought of old England and Bedfordshire chums, So back to his parish in triumph he comes; And need I remark he found many a friend Right willing to help him his nuggets to spend?

He turned up his nose at his poor brother Bill, Who was always content to be plodding up hill; Hard work he disliked, he despised peace and quiet, So he spent all his time and his money in riot.

There was never a horse-race but Fred he was there; He went to each meet, meeting, marker and fair; In a few words, his candle he burnt to the socket, Till he found one fine day not a rap in His pocket.

Then his poor brother Bill came and lent him a hand; Gave him work and a share of his own bit of land; If he means to keep steady I cannot surmise-- Let us hope that at length Fred has learnt to be wise.

But one thing is plain, if you mean to get on, You will find that success must by patience be won; In the battle of life do not trust to your luck, But to honest hard work, perseverance, and pluck.

Don't turn up your nose at a hard-working chap, For pride soon or later must meet with mishap; And wherever your lot in the world may be cast, "Slow and steady" goes safer than "foolish and fast."

Take warning by Fred, and avoid for a friend The man who would tempt you your savings to spend; Don't waste your spare money in riotous pranks, But put it in Penny, or Post-office Banks.

BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.--IV.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

I'm a Bedfordshire Chap, and Bill Stumps is my name, And to tell it don't give me no manner of shame; For a man as works honest and hard for his livin', When he tells you his name, needn't feel no misgivin'.

And works's what I live by. At dawn o' the day, While some folks is snorin', I'm up and away; When I stops for my Bavor [1], 'twould dew your heart good, To see how I relish the taste o' my food.

I'm fond o' my hoein', and ploughin', and drill, And my hosses all knows me and works with a will; I'm fond o' my 'chinin', and thackin' and drainin', For when work's to be done, 'taint no use a complainin.'

I whistles a tune if the mornins be dark; When I goes home o' nights, I sings sweet as a lark; And you'll travel some distance afore you can find A chap more contented and happy in mind.

And I'll tell ye the reason, I've got a good wife, The joy o' my heart, and the pride o' my life. She ain't made o' gold, nor ain't much of a beauty, But she's allers a tryin' to dew of her duty.

And a tidier home there ain't none in the town Than mine and my Polly's--I'll lay you a crown! If it ain't quite a palace, I'm sure 'tis as clean: And I'm King o' my cottage, and Polly's the Queen.

But things wasn't allers as lively as now-- There's thirty good years since I fust went to plough; I wor then but a lad, and a bad'un, I fear, Just a trifle tew partial to baccy and beer.

So my maister he very soon gone me the sack, And my faither he gone me the stick to my back; But I cared for his bangins and blows not a rap; I wor sich a queer onaccountable chap!

To make a long story as short as I can; When I'd done as a boy, I became a young man; And, as happens to most men at that time o' life, I axed a young 'ooman if she'd be my wife.

And Poll she consented. O, how my heart beat, When she gone me her hand, smilin' wonderful sweet! I could hear my heart beatin', just like a Church bell, Till I thought as my weskit 'ud bust pretty well.

But worn't I main happy, and well nigh a crazy, When I heard her her say "Yes," blushin' sweet as a daisy! We was axed in the church--no one dared to say nay; So The Rector he spliced us, one fine soommer day.

My Poll wor a steady young gal, and a good 'un For washin' and scrubbin', and makin' a pudden; Not one o them gossiping gals, wot I hate, But a quoietish 'ooman, wi' brains in her pate.

But soom how or other things didn't go right; There wasn't atwixt us no manner o' spite; But I stayed out o' Saturdays nights, and I fear Spent more nor I'd ought on my baccy and beer.

And Poll she look'd sadly, but didn't say nought; She was one as 'ud allers say less than she thought; But I know'd what she thought--so a cloud kind o' come, And darkened the sun as once shone in our home,

But it come to a pass--'twas the fifth o' November, The day and the year I shall allers remember: Twas midnight and past when I come to my door, Scarce able to stan'--well, I won't say no more?

Next mornin' my head it wor well nigh a splitten, And I stagger'd and stagger'd, as weak as a kitten; But the wust of it all wor the dressin' I got From Polly--oh, worn't it main spicy and hot?

What she said I won't tell you; but you married men, As knows wot it is to be pecked by a hen, Wot I means yer to guess pretty plainish 'ull find, When I tells you she gone me "a bit of her mind."

And now I'm as sober as sober can be, And me and my Poll, as we sits down to tea, Don't care very far of an evenin' to roam-- We're allers so jolly contented at home.

I wears no blue ribbon outside o' my coat, For a pint o' good ale seems to freshen my throat; But offer me more and I'm bound to refuse it-- For my Poll's got a tongue, and her knows how to use it.

So I takes just a pint, when there's coppers to spare-- A pint wi' your dinner ain't no great affair-- But the time' o' the day as suits Polly and me, Is when we sits down of an evenin' to tea.

For the young 'uns sits round us all smilin' and clean; And Sally knits stockings wot's fit for the Queen; Little Bill reads a book, and Jemima she sews, And how happy our home is the parish all knows.

* * * * * *

Now young men and maids, if ye'll listen to me, I'll give you some counsel all gratis and free-- Young men if you want to be happy in life, Remember Bill Stumps, and look out for a wife.

Not one o' them husseys as gossips and chatters, And is allers o' mindin' of other folk's matters, But one as 'ull work, and be gentle and kind, And as knows when to gi'e you "a bit of her mind."

Young maids who are willing young wives to become, Remember, the sweetest of places is home; But remember, no husband 'ull find his home sweet, If it ain't bright and cheerful, and tidy and neat.

If all's of a mullock and dirty and dusty, When he pops home to dinner, he'll turn rayther crusty; But be tidy, and careful in cookin' his grub, And, I'll bet what you like, he wont go to the Pub.

So send off the young'uns to school afore nine; And when they and faither come home for to dine, Don't gi'e 'em cold taters and bacon half-fried, But a meal as 'ull cheer 'em and warm their inside.

And don't let the children go roamin' o' night, But keep 'em at home for their faither's delight; And I hope you may all be as happy and jolly, In your Bedfordshire homes, as Bill Stumps and his Polly!

[1] Bedfordshire for Luncheon.

FINIS.

End of Project Gutenberg's Sagittulae, Random Verses, by E. W. Bowling