_Shepherdess_.--Her fate no tongue shall mourn, no eye shall weep;
_Shepherd_.--His doom was all deserved upon the steep.

_Both_.--Oh! hapless he/she! oh! wicked wicked she/he!

_Shepherdess_.--Take warning, Shepherd; trust no faithless Jill.

_Shepherd_.--Nor you, fair nymph, with Jack e'er climb a hill.

_Both_.--Oh, woe is me! and woe, oh woe is thee!

_Shepherdess_.--With thee, poor youth, I fain would shed a tear.

_Shepherd_.--Maiden, with thee I'd sit and weep a year.

_Both_.--Wouldst thou but smile, I too would dry mine eye; Nay, let's do
both, and laugh here till we cry.

Number 4 was a specimen of the simple ditty style which leaves nothing
unexplained, and never goes out of its course for the sake of a well-
turned phrase.

When Jack was twelve and Jill was ten
Their mother said, "My dear children,
I want you both to take the pail
We bought last week from Mr Gale,
And fill it full of water clear,
And don't be long away, do you hear?"
Then Master Jack and Sister Jill
Raced gaily up the Primrose Hill,
And filled the pail up to the top,
And tried not spill a single drop.
But sad to tell, just half way down
Jack tripped upon a hidden stone,
And tumbled down and cut his head
So badly that it nearly bled.
And Jill was so alarmed that she.
Let drop the pail immediately
And fell down too, and sprained her hand,
And had to go to Dr Bland
And get it looked to; while poor Jack
Was put to bed upon his back.

Number 4 regarded his performance with a certain amount of pride. He
said it was after the manner of Wordsworth, and was a protest against
the inflated style of most modern poetry, which seemed to have for its
sole object to conceal its meaning from the reader. We had a good
specimen of this kind of writing from Number 5, who wrote in blank
verse, as he said, "after the German."

I know not why--why seek to know? Is not
All life a problem? and the tiniest pulse
Beats with a throb which the remotest star
Feels in its orbit? Why ask me? Rather say
Whence these vague yearnings, whither swells this heart,
Like some wild floweret leaping at the dawn?
'Tis not for me, 'tis not for thee to tell,
But Time shall be our teacher, and his voice
Shall fall unheard, unheeded in the midst!
Still art thou doubtful? Then arise and sing
Into the Empyrean vault, while I
Drift in the vagueness of the Ambrosian night.

We none of us dared