Weep, all ye English maidens,
Lo, Bannockbrook's in flood!
Not with its own sweet waters,

But England's noblest blood.
For see, your arrow shower has ceased,
The thrilling bow-string's mute;
And where rides fiery Gloucester ?
All trodden under foot.

Wail, all ye dames of England,

Nor more shall Musgrave know
The sound of the shrill trumpet-
And Argentine is low.
Thy chivalry, proud England,

Have turn'd the rein to fly;
And on them rushes Randolph—
Hark! Edward Bruce's cry.

'Mid reeking blood the Douglas rides, As one rides in a river;

And here the good king Robert comesAnd Scotland's free for ever.

Now weep, ye dames of England,

And let your sons prolong

The Bruce the Bruce of BannockburnIn many a sorrowing song.

FARTHING LOAF DAY AT KIDDERMIN

STER.

[For the Year Book.]

A very curious practice is observed on Midsummer-eve, at Kidderminster, arising from the testamentary dispositions of two individuals, once residents there.

A farthing loaf is given, on Midsummer-eve, to every person born in Churchstreet, Kidderminster, who chooses to claim it, whether they be rich or poor, child or adult. And let not the reader contemn the smallness of the boon. The bequest is of very ancient standing; and the farthing loaf, at the time of its date, was of jolly proportions, far different to the minims which are prepared expressly for this occasion at the present time. The donor was a benevolent old maid, who, no doubt, intended to confer a benefit on the denizens of Church-street, Kidderminster, and had she lived in these days, and had understood the subtleties of the currency question, would doubtless have bestowed it in a less ludicrous shape. The day is called Farthing Loaf Day, and the bakers' shops are amply furnished with these diminutives, as it is the practice of the inhabitants throughout the town to purchase them.

Superadded to this bequest is another. About fifty years ago an old bachelor, emulous of good works, left a sum for the purchase of a twopenny cake for every

unmarried resident in Church-street, let their rank in life be what it may, to be given on "Farthing Loaf Day" - and also the sum of two guineas to be paid to a householder in the said street, as remuneration for providing a supper of bread and cheese and ale, to which every householder in the street should be invited, poor and rich. The householders each to take their turn in being host, but with a proviso, that none except the occupiers of front houses should enjoy this dignity. The toast directed to be drunk after supper is "Peace and good neighbourhood." The money required arises from a sum which is lent at interest, annually, to any competent inhabitant of this favored street, upon his producing two good sureties for the repayment at the end of the year.

May, 1831.

SHEEP SHEARING.

H. M.

Clare preserves some of the old customs and present usages at sheep shearing. After the lines quoted beneath the engraving at the beginning of this month, he speaks of the shepherd, with his sheep fresh from the washing, in the clipping-pen. There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,

He lightens annual toil, while merry ale
Goes round, and glads some old man's heart
to praise

The threadbare customs of his early days:
How the high bowl was in the middle set
At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,
Fill'd full of furmety, where dainty swum
The streaking sugar and the spotting plum.
The maids could never to the table bring
The bowl, without one rising from the ring
To lend a hand; who, if 'twere ta'en amiss,
Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.
The large stone-pitcher in its homely trim,
And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,
Were there; from which were drunk, with
spirits high,

Healths of the best the cellar could supply; While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,

Songs that were pictures of the good old times. Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail, Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale, And break it off-for now the timid sheep, His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap, Shaking his naked skin with wond'ring joys, While others are brought in by sturdy boys.

Then follows a lively account of existing usages at a sheep-shearing

Though fashion's haughty frown hath thrown aside

Half the old forms simplicity supplied, Yet there are some pride's winter deigns to spare,

Left like green ivy when the trees are bare. And now, when shearing of the flocks is done, Some ancient customs, mix'd with harmless fun, Crown the swain's merry toils. The timid maid,

Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,

Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,

But such as every farmer's garden yields— Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face; The shining pansy, trimm'd with golden lace; The tall topp'd larkheels, feather'd thick with flowers;

The woodbine, climbing o'er the door in bowers;

The London tufts, of many a mottled hue; The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue;

The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay Ling'ring, in blossom, summer half away; The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell, Old fashion'd flowers which housewives love so well;

The columbines, stone-blue, or deep night

brown,

Their honeycomb-like biossoms hanging down, Each-cottage-garden's fond adopted child, Though heaths still claim them, where they

yet grow wild;

With marjoram knots, sweet brier, and ribbongrass,

And lavender, the choice of ev'ry lass,
And sprigs of lad's-love-all familiar names,
Which every garden through the village

claims.

These the maid gathers with a coy delight,
And ties them up, in readiness for night;
Then gives to ev'ry swain, 'tween love and
shame,

Her "clipping posies" as his yearly claim.
He rises, to obtain the custom'd kiss :-
With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,
She shrinks away, and, blushing, calls it rude;
Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued
While one, to whom the hint may be applied,
Follows to gain it, and is not denied.

The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,

She blushes silent, and will not disown! Thus ale and song, and healths, and merry ways,

Keep up a shadow still of former days;

But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied
The feast of furmety, is thrown aside;
And the old freedom that was living then,
When masters made them merry with their

men;

When all their coats alike were russet brown, And his rude speech was vulgar as their own:

This is the largest of our song birds, and is called the harbinger of nature, from building its nest, and producing young in the spring, sooner than others.

time.

The male, when kept in a cage, carols delightfully all the spring and summerBesides his pleasant natural note, he may be taught to whistle, or play a tune. When wild in the fields, he feeds promiscuously upon berries and insects, and, for the most part, flies singly.

The male is of a darker black than the female. The hen, and young male-birds, are rather brown, or dark russet, than black, and their bellies of an ash-color; but, after mewing the chicken feathers, the male becomes coal-black.

The female builds her nest very artifibents, and fibres of roots, all strongly cially; the outside of moss, slender twigs, cemented with clay, the inside lined with small straws, bents, hair, or other soft matter. She lays four or five eggs, seldom more, of a bluish-green color, full of dusky spots; and she builds near the ground, generally in a hedge, before there are many leaves upon the bushes.

Young birds of twelve days old, or less, may be raised with little trouble, by taking care to keep them clean, and feeding them with sheep's heart, or other lean, unsalted meat, cut very small, and mixed with a little bread. While young, give them their meat moist, and feed them about every two hours. At full growth, they thrive on any sort of fresh meat, mixed with a little bread. When sick, or drooping, a house spider or two will help the bird. A little cochineal in his water is very cheering and good. They love to wash and preen their feathers; therefore, when fully grown, set water in their cages for that purpose.

The blackbird is always brought up from the nest; the old ones cannot be tamed.*

• Albin.

To every lass

It comes to pass,

That nine pets out of ten die-
All in the night,
As if in spite,

They give her care the go-bye.
The bird was fed,
And put to bed,

To sleep the live-long night;
Chirping with glee
It arose at three,

It being then broad day-light.
It wish'd to eat,
It call'd for meat,

For food the bird did pine:

Its heart grew big-
It hopt the twig,

Ere breakfast came at nine.

Upon my word

The taste of a bird

Has nothing to do with the ton;

They ne'er sit up late

To dirty a plate,

But they sleep in the clothes they have on.

On the 26th of June, 1715, William Tunstall, a gentleman who espoused the Stuart interest, received sentence of death for high treason. His residence was in the north of England, where the family had flourished many centuries. He was taken prisoner at Preston, and led through Highgate in triumph, with Messrs. Tildesley, Dalton, Townley, Hodgeson, Heskeths, Walton, and Leybourne, who were afterwards indicted with him, when they all pleaded not guilty. Mr. Tunstall, oi being brought to the bar again, on May 20, withdrew his former plea, and pleaded guilty. After sentence was passed upon him he lay in prison, uncertain of his fate, and daily hearing of numbers implicated in the same cause being led to execution. In April, 1716, he was conveyed from the Marshalsea to the custody of messengers. He obtained a pardon: not from any circumstances that could weigh with a jury, but because he sung to his harp some "droll" verses upon the occasion, which moved the minister more than the misery of Tun stall's manyassociates in the same desperate cause. It is said that eight hundred unfortunate persons died by the hands of the executioner. The number may have been exaggerated, but, with all allowances, it leaves a catalogue which exhibits want of just policy and recklessness of life in the government of the day. Most of these unhappy persons suffered for what they judged their duty. Had more mercy been shown in 1716, there would not, probably have been a rebellion in 1745 *

By right of birth; within whose spotless breast
The fire of ancient Caledonia burned.
He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed
The Stuart, landing to resume, by force
Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost,
Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head,
With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent
Culloden's fatal overthrow.-Escaped
From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores
He fled; and, when the lenient hand of time
Those troubles had appeased, he sought and
gained,

For his obscured condition, an obscure

Retreat, within this nook of English ground.
-The other, born in Britain's southern tract,
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed
His gentler sentiments of love and hate,
There, where they placed them who in con-
science prized

The new succession, as a line of kings
Whose oath had virtue to protect the land
Against the dire assaults of Papacy
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark
On the distempered flood of public life,
And cause for most rare triumph will be thine,
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand,
The stream, that bears thee forward, prove

not, soon

Or late, a perilous master. He, who oft,
Under the battlements and stately trees
That round his mansion cast a sober gloom,
Had moralized on this, and other truths
Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied,
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh
Heav'd from the heart in fortune's bitterness,
When he had crushed a plentiful estate
By ruinous contest to obtain a seat

In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt:

And, while the uproar of that desperate strife Continued yet to vibrate on his car,

The vanquished Whig, beneath a borrowed

name

(For the mere sound and echo of his own Haunted him with the sensations of disgust Which he was glad to lose) slunk from the world

To the deep shade of these untravelled wilds;
In which the Scottish laird had long possessed
An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met,
Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite
And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think
That losses and vexations, less severe
Than those which they had severally sus-
tained,

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal
For his ungrateful cause; no,-I have heard
My reverend father tell that, 'mid the calm
Of that small town, encountering thus, they
filled,

Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife; Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church;

And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts

Their courtly figures,-seated on the stump
Of an old yew, their favorite resting-place.
But, as the remnant of the long-lived tree
Was disappearing by a swift decay,
They, with joint care, determined to erect,
Upon its site, a dial, which should stand
For public use; and also might survive
As their own private monument; for this
Was the particular spot in which they wished
(And heaven was pleased to accomplish the
desire)

That, undivided, their remains should lie.
So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was
raised

Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps

That to the decorated pillar lead,

A work of art, more sumptuous, as might

seem,

Than suits this place; yet built in no proud

scorn

Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed
To ensure for it respectful guardianship.
Around the margin of the plate, whereon
The shadow falls, to note the stealthy hours,
Winds an inscriptive legend-

"TIME FLIES; it is his melancholy task
To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes,
And re-produce the troubles he destroys.
But, while his blindness thus is occupied,
Discerning mortal! do thou serve the will
Of time's eternal master, and that peace,
Which the world wants, should be for thee
confirmed."

Wordsworth.

Why this would make a man-
To use his eyes for garden water-pots;
Ay, and lay autumn's dust.
Shakspeare.

I remember to have seen at some old alms-houses, when I was a boy, an aged feeble widow-slowly tottering about the foot or two of ground allotted to her humble eleemosynary dwelling-with one of these old earthern vessels, dribbling the water from it among a few patches of candyturf, and weed-like flowers; since when I have seen only the usual painted tin watering pots, and the more powerful garden-engines, used in the gardens of the opulent, and in nurserymen's grounds.

Garden vessels, of the kind first spoken of, were of brown pottery. The top was closed, with rather larger perforations in it, for the water to enter through, for the purpose of filling the body, than at the spout or rose. One of these watering-pots was found in excavating for the bason of St. Katherine's Dock near the Tower. It lay thirty feet below the surface of the earth, and had been embedded there for, probably, two or three centuries. It is an archæological curosity. The preceding is an engraving

of it from a drawing by a correspondent: the deficiency at the top, near the handle, was occasioned by a fracture.

Illustrators of the "immortal bard!" Pause, consider, and determine whether this be not a print that "comes in" for your use.

A watering-pot of this sort is now as great a rarity in England, as the old barber's pewter bason, remembrance of which, as the head-piece of Don Quixote, renders it immortal. I have contrived, by the bye, to secure one of these obsolete basons, penes me, as the memorial of a worthy barber, whom I used to see every morning in my childhood, passing to his last surviving bason-customer-a venerable barrister-who scorning the new French fashion of the shaving-box and brush, stuck inflexibly to the old English hand and soap-ball, that frothed in the bason."

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