THE WELL

OF

ROBERT

ST. KEYNE.

SOUTHEY.

A WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash tree grow ;
And a willow from the bank above,
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town, At the Well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

And be bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day, That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life,

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

“I have left a good woman who never was here,” The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why.”

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, “many a time Drank of this crystal Well;

And before the angel summoned her
She laid on the water a spell :

"If the husband, of this gifted Well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!"

The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ?"
He to the Cornishman said:

But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch :

But 'i faith she had been wiser than I,
For she took a bottle to church."

I Do not like you, Doctor Fell;
The reason why, I can not tell ;
But this, I'm sure, I know full well,
I do not like you, Doctor Feil.

THE FARME
ARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR

HORACE SMITH.

A COUNSEL in the Common Pleas,
Who was esteemed a mighty wit,
Upon the strength of a chance hit
Amid a thousand flippancies,
And his occasional bad jokes

In bullying, bantering, browbeating,
Ridiculing, and maltreating
Women, or other timid folks,
In a late cause resolved to hoax
A clownish Yorkshire Farmer-one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appeared expressly meant by Fate
For being quizzed and played upon :
So having tipped the wink to those
In the back rows,

Who kept the laughter bottled down,
Until our wag should draw the cork,
He smiled jocosely on the clown,
And went to work.

"Well, Farmer Numscull, how go calves at York?"

Why-not, sir, as they do wi' you,

But on four legs, instead of two."

"Officer!" cried the legal elf,

Piqued at the laugh against himself,

"Do pray keep silence down below there;
Now look at me, clown, and attend ;
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?"
"Yees-very like-I often go there."
"Our rustic's waggish quite laconic,"
The Counsel cried, with grin sardonic;
"I wish I'd known this prodigy,

This genius of the clods, when I
On circuit was at York residing.
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true—
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you,
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever
In the West Riding?"

"Why-no, sir, no; we've got our share,
But not so many as when you were there!"

THE QUAKER AND THE

ROBBER

A TRAVELLER wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;

His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours-except on his nose :
And he met with a lady, the story goes.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink,
And the traveller was nothing loth, I think;
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the quaker he grinned, for he'd very good teeth;
And he asked, "Art thou going to ride on the heath?"

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid,
"As to ride this heath over I am sadly afraid;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't for anything I should be found:
For between you and me I have five hundred pound."
"If that is thine own, dear," the Quaker said,
"I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow :
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

The maiden she smiled, and the rein she drew,
"Your offer I'll take, though I'll not take you!"
A pistol she held to the Quaker's head—
"Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead :
"Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

And the damsel ripped up the saddle-bow,
And the Quaker was ne'er a quaker till now;
And he saw by the fair one he wished for a bride,
His purse drawn away with a swaggering stride,
And the eye that looked tender now only defied.

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she,

"To take all this filthy temptation from thee;
For Mammon deceives, and beauty is fleeting.
Accept from thy maiden a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this happy meeting.

"And hark, jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness more than a lass in your eye;
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one you met on the heath:
Her name's Jimmy Barlow-I tell to your teeth."

"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favour, d'ye see;
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's-and truly on thee I depend
To make it appear I my trust did defend.

"So fire a few shots through my coat here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desperate affair."

So Jim he popped first through the skirts of his coat, And then through his collar, quite close to his throat; "Now once through my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I vote."