Now, when there is a wrestling match, 'Tis but a net the fish to catch Who swim in ale, and so I keep My plough in hand or shear the sheep.' Quoth I, 'I'm much inclined to think You're right-that wrestling now means drink; Though I confess I much admire Athletic games, and could desire No nobler sight than I have seen When Cornwall--the acknowledged Queen Of Wrestlingdom-one merry morn To wrestle with Devonian Cann, Who was almost as great a man ; Though I concede his baked shoes' kicks Went through my heart like bayonet pricks. And give of asses' pluck strong proofs: Men's shoes and feet were never made To be in breaking shins display'd.' G 'True,' he replied, they might as well Scratch, bite, and gouge, as I've heard tell; But Cornwall's hug your ribs may crack, Or twist your neck, or snap your back. 'Tis a vain thing, Sir, to my mind, Pastime in such rough pranks to find. I've known the strongest maim'd for life, Others, who gain'd a pound or two, But they were beasts, and ravenous ; I doubt if he his cap would fling. "Tis a vain thing, Sir, as I said, Men want their strength to gain their bread; But the team waits'-and with 'good day' The sturdy ploughman strode away. A local Barnabas, I guess'd, One of the new Saints of the West, A muscular Christian and true man, A match for Kingsley or for Cann In thoughts and thews, one who could throw Humble yet firm, and, though so civil, So half convinced, as you may be, I went but not the match to see. INA'S COOMBE. 1 I DWELT erewhile near Ina's Combe, Loved Devon ! that in its vernal bloom Whose glades and meads are ever green, Where tors like castles crown each scene, Or forests belt the swelling hills. A land with milk and honey flowing, Whose roses half the year are blowing, Whose maidens with their auburn hair, Their damask cheeks, their truth, their worth, Their beauty, find few peers on Earth. 2 Dear native land of my own kin, With a ring fasten'd to this hour; And 'tis my will, as I declare, That, when the precious flower shall die, It shall on my cold bosom lie. 3 In Ina's Coombe fond Memory dwells, |