No. LIII.

THE MAID OF THE MOOR,

OR

THE WATER FIENDS.

G. COLMAN, JUN.

This Tale, which is unavoidably misplaced, should have formed No. XXXVI.

On a wild moor, all brown and bleak,

Where broods the heath frequenting growse,

There stood a tenement antique,

Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here silence reign'd with lips of glue,

And undisturb'd maintain'd her law;

Save when the owl, cried-" whoo! whoo! whoo!"Or the hoarse crow, croak'd—" caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion! for 'tis said,

Whene er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds, from the Bull's-head,

Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop! Lords may moan,
Who stake in London their estate,

On two small rattling bits of bone,

On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels,-he's

gone;-a Rose

Remains behind, whose virgin look,

Unseen, must blush in wint'ry snows;

Sweet beauteous blossom! 'twas the Cook!

A bolder, far, than my

weak note,

Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:

Eels might be proud to lose their coat,

If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain'd, save only she ;

She by herself had been, if one

Had not been left, for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue Was tinged with health and manly toil; Cabbage he sow'd, and when it

He always cut it off to boil.

grew,

Oft would he cry,

-"Delve, delve the hole!

" And prune the tree, and trim the root! "And stick the wig upon the pole,

"To scare the sparrows from the fruit!"

A small mute favourite by day

Follow'd his steps; where'er he wheels
His barrow round the garden gay,
A bob-tail cur is at his heels.

Ah man the brute creation see,
Thy constancy oft need to spur!
While lessons of fidelity,

Are found in every bob-tail cur.

Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong,

While Bob-tail in his face would look,

And mark'd his master troll the

song,

-"Sweet Molly Dumpling! O, thou Cook!"

For thus he sung: while Cupid smiled,

Pleased that the Gard'ner own'd his dart ; Which pruned his passions, running wild, And grafted true-love on his heart.

Maid of the Moor, his love return!

True love ne'er tints the cheek with shame; When gard'ners' hearts, like hot-beds burn, A cook may surely feed the flame.

Ah! not averse from love was she;
Though pure as heaven's snowy flake;
Both loved; and though a Gard'ner he,
He knew not what it was to rake.

Cold blows the blast, the night's obscure :
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack,

The sun had sunk, and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor, was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas gard'ner could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin,
But ah! no foot is heard to stir;
He comes not from the garden in,
Nor he, nor little bob-tail cur.

They cannot come, sweet Maid, to thee;

Flesh, both of cur and man, is And what's impossible can't be,

grass:

And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces through the hall antique,
To call her Thomas, from his toil;
Opes the huge door : the hinges creak,
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall,

She-"Thomas"-cried with many a sob;

And thrice on Bob-tail did she call,

Exclaiming sweetly-" Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain Maid! a gard'ner's corpse, 'tis said,
In answers can but ill succeed;

And dogs that hear, when they are dead,
very cunning dogs indeed!

Are

Back through the hall she bent her way,

All, all was solitude around;

The candle shed a feeble ray,

Though a large mould of four to the pound.