1822.) 
Ais‘rent innotes, for:the utterance’ of 
which, however bad they may be, and 
lhowever much: the bard may desérve, 
at’ Teast; a critical» catastrophe, ‘he 
“stands:in ‘no\ jeopardy of the Bank 
' directors, 
¢ JThis:audacious rustic: at last: stands 
forward: in the person: of Philip, “‘a 
/ farmer’s son, well known for song,” 
who:<¢compounds for a certain large 
sum of lawful money current in Great 
Britam, with the history of ‘‘The 
‘Drunken Father.” This payment is 
bmade in a kind of small change, which 
‘is' necessarily, on that account, the 
more abundant in quantity; and we 
must confine ourselves, therefore, to an © 
analysis of the substance, and to a spe- 
cimen or two:of the best impressions. 
Poor Ellen married Andrew Hall, 
Who dwells beside the moor, 
Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall, 
»») And woodbines grace the door. 
Who does not know how blest, how lov’d, 
Were her mild langhing eyes, 
By every youth; but Andrew prov’d 
Unworthy of his prize. 
In tippling was his whole delight, 
ch sign-post barr’d his way ; 
He spent in muddy ale at night 
«©The wages of the day. 
“Tho” Ellen still had charms, was young, 
' /"nd*he in manliood’s prime, 
©(She’sad beside her cradle sung, 
entcAnd:sigh’d away her time. 
* One céld bleak night the stars were hid, 
’ In vain she wish’d him home ; 
‘Her children cried, half cheer’d, half chid, 
“Oh when will father come?” 
*Till Caleb, nine years old, upsprung, 
And kick’d his stool aside, 
And younger Mary round him clung, 
“Vil go, and you shall guide.” 
The children proceed to seek their 
_reprobate father, and find him, without 
_ fail, at the public-house, in a very com- 
fortable state of intoxication. Andrew 
_is nota bad-hearted man, and musters 
_ his senses to accompany his children 
“home; but his drink has made him 
conceited and fantastical. He taxes 
the little ones, with their unsteady 
gait, and is wroth with the ditches that 
are, always exactly in his way. He 
brings them at last to the brink of the 
imillpool, where he drops the lantern 
into the stream ; and the party is left 
helpless ayid bewildered, on the brink 
of danger. Me y miller hears their 
ories, and condyets them safely home. 
The, next. morning, Lilen makes a 
Bloomfield’ s, May-Day with the Muses. 
421 
moving and» effectual appeal to her 
husband’s feelings + ; 
“Dear Andrew, hear me,—tho’ distress’d 
Almost too much to speak,— ; 
This infant staryes upon my breast : 
To scold I am too weak, 
“¥ work, I spin, I toil all day, 
Then leave my work to cry ; 
And start with horror when I think 
You wish to see me die. 
“ But do you wish it? Can that bring 
More comfort, or more joy? 
Look round the house,—how destitute ! 
Look at your ragged boy! : 
“That boy should make a father proud, 
If any feeling can ; 
Then save your children, save your wife, 
Your honour as a man, 
“ Hear me, for God’s sake! hear me now, 
And act a fathe?’s part!”— 
The culprit bless’d her angel tongue, 
And clasp’d her to his heart; 
And would have vaw’d; and’ would ‘have 
sworn, 
But Ellen kiss’é hiny dumb :—= 
“ Exert your mind, vow to-yourself; 
And better days will come. 
“¢T shall be well when you'are kind, 
And you'll be better too.”— ' 
“Yl! drink no more,” hie quick rejoin’d 
“ Be’t poison if I do.” 
From that bright day, his plants, his flowers, 
His crops, began to thrive, 
And for three years has Andrew been 
The soberest maw alive, 
? 
Weare of opinion that Philip is en- 
titled to a receipt. in full, and that he 
has dealt fairly and honestly with good 
Sir Ambrose in this particular. 
Our eye is next caught by a sturdy 
gentleman in green, who-rises ‘in act 
to speak,” and who turns out to be the 
‘Oakley gamekeeper. ‘He ought to be 
sensible of the danger of sporting off 
his own manor, and we trust that he is 
not about to turn poacher, and to tres- 
pass on this new ground without a 
regular licence... As the game, how- 
ever, is already. flushed, and. he has 
taken a steady,aim, let us see how the 
gamekeeper brings.duwn his bird. 
The \ Forester, 
Born in a dark wood’s Ienely dell, 
Where echoes roat’d, and tendrils eurl’d, 
Round a low cot, like hérmit’s cell, 
Old Salcey Forest:was my world. 
I feltno bonds, no,shackles, then, 
For life in freedom was begun; 
I glovied in the exploits of men, 
And learnt to litt my father’s gun. — 
O what 
