knew the world, yet was not corrupted by it; and though good-natured to everybody, her happiness was centred in her husband. The beautiful character which Burke drew of her on the thirteenth anniversary of their marriage reads like that of an ideal; but stern men of the world, like Mr. Hardy and Sir Philip Francis, spoke of her as all that was beautiful and amiable among women; and so shrewd a critic of her own sex as Miss Burney, and so good and severe a woman as Hannah More, have cordially given a similar testimony. A wife who could make such men and such women enthusiastically praise her virtue and her amiableness must have been virtuous and amiable indeed. She glides with Quaker calmness, and an almost saint-like beauty, through the agitating scenes of Burke's daily life, ever soothing his natural irritability by her natural gentleness, standing by his side in moments of despondency, cheering him in poverty, nursing him in sickness, consoling him in sorrow. Proud to live in the shadow of him whom she so devotedly loved, she confined herself almost exclusively to the home which for him she was so anxious to make happy; and so unpretending indeed was she, that few of Burke's friends, except those who habitually visited at his house, had the slightest acquaintance with his wife, or even seemed to be aware of her existence. In that great lottery where domestic happiness is staked, Burke was thoroughly successful. Whatever may be his future troubles, it is much to remember that at his fireside there is and will be peace.

T. Macknight

V

A WEST-COUNTRY BEVY

The Milk-Maid o' the Farm

O

POLL'S the milk-maïd o' the farm!

An' Poll's so happy out in groun'
Wi' her white païl below her eärm
As if she wore a goolden crown.

An' Poll don't zit up half the night,
Nor lie vor half the day a-bed;
An' zoo her eyes be sparklèn bright
An' zoo her cheäks be bloomèn red.

In Zummer mornens, when the lark
Do rouse the litty lad an' lass
To work, then she's the vu'st to mark
Her steps along the dewy grass.

An' in the evenen, when the zun
Do sheen ageän the western brows
O' hills, where bubblen brooks do run,
There she do zing bezide her cows.

An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand,
An' never overzet her païl,

Nor try to kick her nimble hand,
Nor switch her wi' her heavy tail.

Noo leady, wi' her muff an' vaïl,
Do walk wi' sich a steätely tread
As she do, wi' her milkèn païl
A-balancèd on her comely head.

An' she, at mornen an' at night,
Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold
An' wring her cheeses red and white,
An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd.

An' in the barken or the ground,
The chaps do always do their best
To milk the vu'st their own cows round,
An' then help her to milk the rest.

Zoo Poll's the milk-maïd o' the farm!.
An' Poll's so happy out in groun'

Wi' her white païl below her eärm
As if she wore a goolden crown.

William Barnes

The Maid vor my Bride

A

H! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride
Is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,

Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

She's straight an' she's slender, but not over tall,
Wi' lim's that be litsome, but not over small;
There's love-winnèn goodness a-shown in her feäce,
An' queen, to be steätely, must walk wi' her peäce.

Her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plaïn,
An' cleän as a blossom undimm'd by a staïn;
Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
Up under her chin, or let down at her zide.

When she do speak to woone, she don't steäre an' grin,
There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin,
An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek,
As her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak.

Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each

Ov her cheäks is so downy an' red as a peach;

She's pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love

Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.

An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the

groun',

Wi' woone eärm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down,
I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheäme than o' pride,
Do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide.

Zoo don't talk o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride
Is but little lik' too many maïdens bezide,
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

William Barnes

Blackmwore Maidens

THE primrwose in the sheäde do blow,

The cowslip in the zun,

The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waïght,
An' steppèn off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring within the tow'r,

You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,

An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their dacters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome

"Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee 'em in their pleäce,
A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mothers' feäce,