A HINT TO THE FARMERS.

FARMERS, whose income, day by day,

Slides on the Sliding Scale away,

Whatever its direction;

When favour'd most still most forlorn,

Starved by monopoly of Corn,

And ruin'd by protection;—

Farmers! who dying, seldom see
One penny left for Charon's fee,

When o'er the Styx ye're ferried,

But in your landlord's pocket trace (Like Mecca to the Turks) the place

Wherein your profit's buried

Farmers! who find in Cobden's breath,

And Bright's harangues, a menaced death

For all of yeoman station,

And most appropriately brand

The Corn-law Leaguers as a band

Prone to assassination:

When landlords cry, "We must be fed,

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Go-grind your bones to make our bread,

"From Earth more harvests ravish;

Study Liebig, ye clodpole elves!

"Buy Guano-Soda-stint yourselves,

"That we may still be lavish :"

Farmers! ye ought to patronise

Whate'er improvements may arise

To lessen your expenses,

So hear my tale-there's little in 't, 'Tis merely meant to give a hint

For making cheap field fences.

Queen Bess-I mean Elizabeth,

Favour'd, as the historian saith,

The handsome Earl of Leicester,

To whom she made large grants of land, For which he doubtless kiss'd her hand,

And duly thank'd and bless'd her.

These lands were commons, on whose turf

Many a cottager and serf

Had fed his goose or donkey;

And being dispossess'd, the crowd

Began to murmur in a loud,

I needn't add a wrong key.

What cared his lordship! down he came,

With carpenters to fence the same,

And shut out clowns and cattle;

Riding each morn the men to watch,
So that no moment they might snatch

For drink or tittle-tattle.

One day, a peasant by his side

Bow'd his grey-head and humbly cried, "I ax your lordship's pardon,

"I've got a notion in my nob,

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'Whereby this here expensive job

"Need hardly cost a farden."

"Not cost a farthing, doting clown!" Exclaim'd his lordship with a frown,

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Half angry and half comic ;

Braggart most vain and over free,

"Think'st thou that I can learn from thee

"A plan more economic?"

"Yes," quoth the rustic-"yes, my lord,

"You needn't buy another board,

"Or oaken plank or paling,

"Think not my words are brags and boasts,

"For if your lordship finds the posts,

"The public will find railing!"

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Joy! joy! my lover's bark returns,
I know her by her bearing brave:
How gallantly the foam she spurns,

And bounds in triumph o'er the wave!

Why dost thou veil the glorious sight,
In lurid rain, thou summer cloud?
See! see! the lightning flashes bright!
Hark! to the thunder long and loud!

The storm is past-the skies are fair,

But where's the bark?-there was but one:

Ha! she is yonder, shatter'd-bare,—

She reels-she-sinks-O Heaven! she's gone!