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To peace so perfect, that the young behold

With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
-I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey; he replied

That he was going many miles to take

A last leave of his Son, a Mariner,

Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, And there was dying in an hospital.



Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?

What is't that ails young Harry Gill?

That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, "Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; beneath the moon,

Beneath the sun,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who pass'd her door,
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night!
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle light.
-This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor Woman! dwelt alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh! then how her old bones would shake!

You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.

Her evenings then were dull and dead;

Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed


And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scatter'd many a lusty splinter,
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile before hand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

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