Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

3. 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.
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad:
And any man who passed her door,
Might see how poor a hut she had.

4. 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.

5. 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.

6. 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.

7. O joy for her! whene'er in winter,
The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered 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.

8. Now when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring,
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

9. Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake,
And vow'd that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take,
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.

10. And once behind a rick* of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand;
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise-he's all awake-
Again!-on tiptoe down the hill

He softly creeps-'Tis Goody Blake!
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

11. Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull,
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had fill'd her apron full.
When with her load she turn'd about,
The by-road back again to take,
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

12. And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cry'd, "I've caught you then at last!"
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;

Rick, a pile, or stack

And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd
To God that is the Judge of all.

13. She pray'd, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm-
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!"
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
Young Harry heard what she had said,
And icy cold he turn'd away.

14. He went complaining all the morrow,
That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding coat,
But not a whit the warmer he :
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
15. 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinn'd :
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say 'tis plain,
That live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

16. No word to any man he utters,
Abed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
“Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
Abed or up, by night or day,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still;
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

LESSON CVI.

The Three Warnings.-MRS. THRALE. 1. THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground. "Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,

When pains grow sharp and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

2. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

3. When sports went round, and all were gay On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom

With him into another room;

And looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."

4. "With you! and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
Young as I am? 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know."
What more he urged I have not heard:
His reasons could not well be stronger:
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

5. Yet, calling up a serious look-
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,—
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And farther to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave.
Willing, for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve,

In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased, the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.

6. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wisely,—and how wel It pleased him, in his prosperous course, To smoke his pipe, and pat his horse,The willing muse shall tell :

:

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But, while he viewed his wealth increase,—
While thus along life's dusty road

The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

7. And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of fate

Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dobson cries.
"So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies:
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest:
Since I was here before

"Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore."

8. "So much the worse!" the clown rejoined: 66 Το spare the aged would be kind :

Besides, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings."

"I know," cries Death, "that, at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength."
9. "Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast:
I have been lame these four years past."
"And no great wonder," Death replies:
"However, you still keep your eyes;