The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit Part 31

So now conwarted I ha' bin From igorance and wice; It's only 'appiness that's sin, And norty things that's nice!

Whereas I called them upstart gents The wust o' low bred sn.o.bs, Wi' contrite 'art I hollers out "My heye, wot bloomin' n.o.bs!"

I sees the error o' my ways, So, lads, this warnin' take, The Poor Man's path, the parson says, Winds round the Burnin' Lake.

They've changed it since the days o' yore, Them Gospel preachers, drat un; They used to preach it to the poor, An' now they preach it _at_ un.

Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain.

Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one lesson of Dr. Brimstone's sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great performance, he said:-

"Now, look here, lads, it's all very well to be converted with such preaching as that; but it's my belie it's more calculated to make hypocrites than Christians."

"Hear! hear!" said Lazyman. "That _is_ right." Anything but conversion for Lazyman.

"Now," continued Harry, "I've heard that kind of preaching a hundred times: it's a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor being so near h.e.l.l, I put it in these four lines."

"Hear, hear!" cried the company; "order!"

And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness as, I venture to say, would always be shown to catch the text, if it came at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.

"Shut up," says Lazyman; "let's 'ear this 'ere. I knows it's summut good by the look an him."

"Don't make a row," retorts the Boardman; "who can hear anything while you keeps on like that?"

And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox "preaching of the word." The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and dramatically:-

"In WANT full many a vice is born, And Virtue in a DINNER; A well-spread board makes many a SAINT, And HUNGER many a sinner."

From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone's sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their heads in token of a.s.sent; they thumped the table in recognition of the soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.

"Well, I'm no singer," said Harry.

"Try, Harry!" exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people to try.

"Trying to sing when you can't," answered Harry, "I should think is a rum sort of business; but I'll tell you what I'll do if you like. When I was down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which-"

"That's it!" thumped out Joe, "a story. I likes a good story, specially if there be a goast in it."

"I don't know what there is in it," said Harry, "I'll leave you to make that out; but I tell you what I did when I heard it, I made a ballad of it, and so if you like I'll try and recollect it."

"Bravo!" they said, and Harry gave them the following

SONG OF THE WAVES.

Far away on the pebbly beach That echoes the sound of the surge; As if they were gifted with speech, The breakers will sing you a dirge.

The fishermen list to it oft, And love the sweet charm of its spell, For sometimes it wispers so soft, It seems but the voice of the sh.e.l.l.

It tells of a beautiful child That used to come down there and play, And shout to the surges so wild That burst on the brink of the bay.

She was but a child of the poor, Whose father had perished at sea; 'Twas strange, that sweet psalm of the sh.o.r.e, Whatever the story might be!

Yes, strange, but so true in its tone That no one could listen and doubt; The heart must be calm and alone To search its deep mystery out.

She came with a smaller than she That toddled along at her side; Now ran to and fled from the sea, Now paddled its feet in the tide.

Afar o'er the waters so wild, Grazed Effie with wondering eye; What mystery grew on the child In all that bright circle of sky?

Her father-how sweet was the thought!

Was linked with this childish delight; 'Twas strange what a vision it brought- As though he still lingered in sight.

Was it Heaven so near, so remote, Across the blue line of the wave?

'Twas thither he sailed in his boat, 'Twas there he went down in his grave!

So the days and the hours flew along, Like swallows that skim o'er the flood; Like the sound of a beautiful song, That echoes and dies in the wood!

One day as they strayed on the strand, And played with the shingle and sh.e.l.l, A boat that just touched on the land Was playfully rocked by the swell.

O childhood, what joy in a ride!

What eagerness beams in their eyes!

What bliss as they climb o'er the side And shout as they tumble and rise!

O sea, with thy pitiful dirge, Thou need'st to be mournful and moan!

The wrath of thy terrible surge Omnipotence curbs it alone!

The boat bore away from the sh.o.r.e, The laughter of childhood so glad!

And the breakers bring back ever more The dirge with its echo so sad!

A widow sits mute on the beach, And ever the tides as they flow, As if they were gifted with speech, Repeat the sad tale of her woe!

"That's werry good," said the Boardman. "I'm afraid them there children was washed away-it's a terrible dangerous coast that ere Ern Bay. I've 'eeard my father speak on it."

"Them there werses is rippin'!" said Joe.

"Stunnin'!" exclaimed Bob.

And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and "well put together."

"Capital," said the sergeant, "I never heard anything better, and as for Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed pigs."

"Ay, aye," said the company to a man.

"Why don't you follow my example?" said Harry; "it's the finest life in the world for a young fellow."

"Well," said the sergeant, "that all depends; its very good for some, for others not so good-although there are very few who are not pleased when they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!"