THE MAGPIES AND THE MARROWBONE.

BUT it is time to change the metre,

'Tis time to strike a louder string;

My Muse declares whene'er I meet her,
That I of love for ever sing,

Unless I chance on politics,

When my rhymes crackle like dry sticks :
Yet she admits that love's a theme

Which may the sorriest verse redeem,
And can bring out from crazy chords

Music that elevates the words.

Now, although narrow is my range,
I will my topic wholly change.

Two magpies on a churchyard stone Were wrangling o'er a marrow bone :

TWO MAGPIES AND THE MARROWBONE.

The question this-not whose it was,

As in an interpleader cause

But how, and that involved much doubt,

To get the latent marrow out.

When clear'd that point, the precious matter

Might be the subject of more clatter.

While I attentive at the gate

Listen'd to this abstruse debate,
A clodpole chanced to saunter by,
Who view'd the strife with evil eye,
Went for a gun with pace not slack,
And with it not less quick came back,
But found the birds had left the bone,
And thence without the marrow flown;
And safe beyond the rustic's reach

Had perch'd on a wide-spreading beach,
Where they prolong'd their hot contention,
And language used not fit to mention.

93

Moral of course there is, profound,

Avoid all brawls on holy ground;

Another lesson may be this,

Sticklers for modes the substance miss;

And one more head the cap may fit,

Where there's much wrath there's little wit.

THE WRESTLER.

ONCE with my staff I paced the Down,
Towards a Saint-named Cornish Town;

For Saints in Cornwall muster'd more
Than Parsons now, by many score,

And, where they dwelt, the places claim
The odour of the saintly name.

I met a man of stalwart build,

Who could scythe, axe, or broadsword wield,

If the last he had cared to gripe;

A husbandman of the old type,

Who furrows deep for years had turn'd,

And many a harvest supper earn'd,

Yet straight as any elm he stood,

And look'd for twenty years still good.

'Friend,' said I, 'you are on your way,

No doubt, to see the manly play,

In which, if I may read your form,

You acted when your blood was warm,

And still could give a Cornish hug

Would make the Devons their shoulders shrug.'

Said he, Sir,' in a sober tone,

'You've guess'd half right, I freely own;

Like others I have had my day,

And play'd when 'twas the time to play:

But then it was a different thing,

The gentlefolk would keep the Ring,
And wrestlers proved the sticklers were,
Not chosen by a victualler

Because they could gulp beer by quarts,
Like boatswains fresh from foreign ports.
Yeomen, and even Squires, would then
Throw in their hats and play like men,
And where we wrestled was not near

A place that flow'd with streams of beer.