THE POACHERS. 309 



Jemima, than from the congratulations of her friends. She, divining 

 at once the state of her mother's mind, sought some consolation for 

 her own disappointments in tormenting their author with exaggerated 

 expressions of grief and contrition. It required assuredly no small 

 measure of self command to maintain, under such trials, an air of 

 decent composure. Mrs. Golightly was able to do so ; but as the 

 exertion was great, so was it necessary to shorten its duration: and 

 she availed herself, therefore, of the first opportunity to retire, that 

 she might in private and alone give vent to those feelings which she 

 had been obliged hitherto to conceal. 



CHAP. VI. THE DENOUEMENT. 



I HERE close my volumes, and take leave of my friendly readers, with 

 whom, side by side, I have wandered so long. And as my sole object 

 in writing has been their amusement and instruction if one incon- 

 siderate mind shall have been benefitted by their moral, or one weary 

 heart relieved by their interest, the labour of their author will be fully 

 repaid ; for the consolation however of those kind souls who may sym- 

 pathize in the lover's fallen hopes, and in poor Jemima's disappoint- 

 ments, it is due to say, that, in less than a twelvemonth after the 

 events we have recorded, the interesting Matthew married his mo- 

 ther's housemaid, and the pretty Jemima was led to the hymeneal 

 altar by an Irish captain of horse, who was looking for his majo- 

 rity through the parliamentary influence of Sir Pedigree MacDusty 

 sincerely pray ing that all " matrimony" might not prove "moonshine/' 



SWEET ROSA. 



THEY move with sad and solemn pace, 



From yon white cot's sweet flowery breast; 



And grief sits on each silent face 



While at the old church gate they rest. 



And has death snatch'd a thing so sweet 

 As yon green valley's richest prize 



The lovely girl I used to meet 



In Hawthorn-dale with laughing eyes ? 



Oh ! yes, it is that budding flower, 

 Sweet Rosa of the hawthorn dale ; 



Death stole her in an early hour, 

 And turn'd her blushing roses pale. 



