The Sailor - Sailor now no more,
But such he had been heretofore
To courteous Benjamin replied,

"Go you your way, and mind not me ; For I must have, whate'er betide,

My Ass and fifty things beside, -
Go, and I'll follow speedily!"

The Wagon moves, and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly. Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warın air Tempted them to settle there.

Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

The Sailor gathers up his bed,
Takes down the canvas overhead,
And, after farewell to the place,
A parting word, though not of grace,
Pursues, with Ass and all his store,
The way the Wagon went before.

CANTO SECOND.

IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock,
A little pair that hang in air,
Been mistress also of a clock,

(And one, too, not in crazy plight,)

Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn

Its bead-roll of midnight

Then, when the Hero of my tale
Was passing by, and down the vale
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween
As if a storm had never been)
Proceeding with a mind at ease;
While the old Familiar of the seas,
Intent to use his utmost haste,
Gained ground upon the Wagon fast,
And gives another lusty cheer;
For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
A welcome greeting he can hear; —
it is a fiddle in its glee

Dinning from the CHERRY-TREE!

As Benjamin is now aware,

Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
Had almost reached the festive door,
When, startled by the Sailor's roar,

Ile hears a sound and sees the light,
And in a moment calls to mind
That 't is the village MERRY-NIGHT!

Although before in no dejection,
At this insidious recollection
His heart with sudden joy is filled, -
His ears are by the music thrilled,
His eyes take pleasure in the road
Glittering before him bright and broad;
And Benjamin is wet and cold,

And there are reasons manifold

That make the good, tow'rds which he 's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning.

Nor has thought time to come and go,

To vibrate between yes and no;

For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance
That blew us hither!-let him dance,
Who can or will! -
my honest soul,

Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!
He draws him to the door,

"Come in,

Come, come," cries he to Benjamin!

And Benjamin

ah, woe is me!

Gave the word; the horses heard

And halted, though reluctantly.

* A term well known in the North of England, and applied to rural festivals where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing.

"Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, Feasting at the CHERRY-TREE!"

This was the outside proclamation,

This was the inside salutation;

What bustling-jostling high and low!

A universal overflow!

What tankards foaming from the tap!
What store of cakes in every lap!
What thumping-stumping-overhead!
The thunder had not been more busy :
With such a stir, you would have said,
This little place may well be dizzy!
"Tis who can dance with greatest vigor,
'Tis what can be most prompt and eager;
As if it heard the fiddle's call,
The pewter clatters on the wall;
The very bacon shows it feeling,
Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
What greater good can heart desire?
'T were worth a wise man's while to try
The utmost anger of the sky,

To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast,

If such the bright amends at last.
Now should you say I judge amiss,
The CHERRY-TREE shows proof of this;
For soon, of all the happy there,
Our travellers are the happiest pair;

All care with Benjamin is gone,

A Cæsar past the Rubicon!

He thinks not of his long, long strife;
The Sailor, Man by nature gay,
Hath no resolves to throw away;

And he hath now forgot his Wife,
Hath quite forgotten her or may be
Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
Within that warm and peaceful berth,
Under cover,

Terror over,

Sleeping by her sleeping Baby.

With bowl that sped from hand to hand, The gladdest of the gladsome band,

Amid their own delight and fun,

They hear when every dance is done,
When every whirling bout is o'er —

The fiddle's squeak,*- that call to bliss,
Ever followed by a kiss;

They envy not the happy lot,

But enjoy their own the more!

While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chair, Limps (for I might have told before

That he was lame) across the floor,

Is gone,

returns, and with a prize ;

* At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his partner.