thy fold, all other flocks
Were proud of thee--a shepherd true,
All other shepherds greeted thee,
Although thy flocks to theirs were few.

Thou tended with a shepherd's care,
And saw that none did go astray;
Thou led them with an honest will,
From early morn to evening's ray.

Adieu, dear sir, long may'st thou live
To be a credit to our isle;
And when thou toil'st 'midst other friends,
May fortune on thy labours smile.

[Picture: Decorative picture of a plant]

He's Thy Brother.

Turn from the rich thy steps awhile,
And visit this poor domicile;
Abode of flavours rank and vile?
This is the home, and this the style,
Where lives thy brother!

The cobwebs are his chandeliers;
Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs;
He has no carpet on the stairs,
But, like the wild beasts to their lairs,
Crawls in thy brother.

He once did stride his father's knee--
A little horseman bold and free;
And, should thou trace this pedigree,
Thy mother's darling pet was he--
Thy little brother.

His mind was not of thine, 'tis plain;
He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain;
But thou thy object didst attain
For which another sought in vain--
E'en thy own brother.

Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace,
While he joined in the wild-goose chase;
Thou'rt now the great one of this place,
While he hath lost his phantom race--
Thy wretched brother!

I see a form amongst the crowd,
With stricken heart, and head that's bowed;
I hear a voice, both deep and loud--
A voice of one that wanted food--
It is thy brother.

The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The smallest insect 'neath the sod,
Are creatures of an All-seeing God,
Who may have smitten with his rod
Thy foolish brother.

He careth not for wealth or show,
But dares thee to neglect, e'en now,
That unmanned wretch, so poor and low,
Else he may deal a heavy blow,
E'en for thy brother.

Lund's Excursion to Windermere.

Come hither mi muse, an' lilt me a spring,
Tho'daghtless awhile tha's been on the wing;
But yet tha mun try to cum up ta t'mark,
An' give us sum rhyme for a bit of a lark:
An' tho' at thy notes in this sensation age,
Wiseacres may giggle an' critics may rage,
Thou art my sole hobby there is no mistake,
So sing us t'Excursion ta Windermere Lake.

'Twor a fine summer's mornin' as ivver wor seen,
All nature wor wearin' her mantle o' green;
The birds wor all singin'