CHAP. T. 



OLD ROADS. 



H.I 



Lanes, which are met with, in some places, eight and ten 

 feet deep. Horse-tracks in summer, and rivulets in 

 winter, the earth became gradually worn into these deep 

 furrows, many of which, in Wilts, Somerset, and Devon, 

 n -present the tracks of roads as old as, if not older 

 tlian, the Conquest. When the ridgeways of the earliest 

 settlers on Dartmoor, above alluded to, were abandoned, 

 the tracks were formed through the valleys, but the 

 new roads were no better than the old ones. They were 

 narrow and deep, fitted only for a horse passing along 

 laden with its crooks, as so capitally described in the 

 ballad of " The Devonshire Lane." l 



1 This ballad is so descriptive of 

 flu- i >l(l roads of the south-west of 

 Kii'jland that \\v arc H-mpted to quote 

 it at Irimth. It was written by the 

 I lev. .Mm Marriott, sometime vicar 

 of Broadclist, Devon ; and Mr. Eowe, 



vicar of Crediton, says, in his * Peram- 

 bulation of Dartmoor,' that he can 

 readily imagine the identical lane 

 near Broadclist, leading towards Polte- 

 more, which might have sat for the 

 portrait. 



VOL. T. 



In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along 

 T'other day, much in want of a subject for song, 

 Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain, 

 Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. 



In the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it, 

 It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet ; 

 For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, 

 Drive forward you must, there is no turning round. 



But tho' 'tis so long, it is not very wide, 



For two are the most that together can ride ; 



And e'en then, 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, 



And jostle and cross and run foul of each other. 



Oft poverty meets them with mendicant looks, 



Aud care pushes by them, o'erladen with crooks ; 



And strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass, 



And stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. 



Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right, 



That they shut up the beauties around them from sight ; 



And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, 



That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. 



But thinks I, too, these banks, within which we are pent, 



With bud, blossom, and berry, are richly besprent; 



And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to mini, 



Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home. 



In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows ; 



The ivy wavs tivsh o'er the withering rose, 



And the ever-green love of a virtuous wiii- 



Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life. 



Then long be the journey, and narrow the 1 wnv, 



I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay ; 



And whate'er others say, be the last to complain, 



Though marri;i<ro is just like a Devonshire lane. 



M 



