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
Sent up that Sampson, Polkinhorne,

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.
Kicks natural are to horses' hoofs,

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,
With children starved, and beggar'd wife;
And some for weeks unfit to work,
Who did at last their labour shirk.

Others, who gain'd a pound or two,
Drafts for it on the tapster drew.
Paul fought with beasts at Ephesus,

But they were beasts, and ravenous ;
And, if he went to yonder Ring,

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
An argument, or bear a blow,

Humble yet firm, and, though so civil,
Ready to wrestle with the Devil.

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,
One of the sweetest dells in Devon;

Loved Devon ! that in its vernal bloom
Excels all lands beneath the Heaven;

Whose glades and meads are ever green,
Whose rivulets are living rills,

Where tors like castles crown each scene,

Or forests belt the swelling hills.

A land with milk and honey flowing,
Whose kine for grace with deer compare,

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,
Who sleep so far from its kind soil,
Whither I came that I might win
My country back, as waves recoil,
Only more close to clasp the shore;
With a light step, and heart as light,
I came from the wild Ocean's roar
When the May-morn of youth was bright,
And found a bower and cull'd a flower
Which to my heart I bound, and wear

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,
For, long since, in its sylvan shade,
By those hoar rocks and mossy cells
A sweeter tune a minstrel play'd
Than Walla's crispèd lip could sing,
Which warbles now as it did when