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MARRIAGE IS LIKE A DEVONSHIRE LANE. 97

Marriage is Like a Devonshire Lane.

I

J. MARRIOTT, sometime vicar of Broadclyst.

IN a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along

T'other day, much in want of a subject for

song,

Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain ;

Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you so fast as a cage does a linnet;

For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, there is no turning round !

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide;

For two are the most that together can ride;
And e'en then 'tis a chance but they get in a pother,
And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.

Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them, o'erladen with crooks;
And Strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass,
And Stubbornness blocks up the way on an ass.

Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right,
That they shut up the beauties around them from sight!
And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

H

But, thinks I too, these banks within which we are pent
With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent;
And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose;
And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife

Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.

Then long be the journey, and narrow the way,
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And, whate'er others say, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

St. Aubyn Election Song.

THIS song, for a copy of which I am indebted to the Rev. C. M. Edward-Collins, of Trewardale, was evidently written in 1790, when Sir John St. Aubyn, grandfather of the present baronet, contested the county with Mr. F. Gregor, unsuccessfully. The St. Aubyn alluded to in the first stanza was the one of whom Walpole said that he knew the price of every man in the House of Commons except the little Cornish baronet. The tune is the old favourite "Vicar of Bray."

IN old Sir Robert Walpole's days,
When bribery had no harm in 't,
St. Aubyn's independence gained
No title or preferment.

ST. AUBYN ELECTION SONG.

99

He daily to Sir Robert said

It was not his intention

His country or his rights to sell,

And he despised a pension.

And this is law he did maintain

Unto his dying day, sir,

His independence he would keep,
Whatever Courtiers say, sir.

For Cornwall's trust his grandson asks,
His pride! his wish! his glory!
And, this obtained, whatever tasks
Ye set him, I'll assure ye,
If honour and integrity

Give them a good foundation,
He'll do the best that do he may
To serve ye and the nation.

And this is law he did maintain
Unto his dying day, sir,

His independence he would keep,
Whatever Courtiers say, sir.

Then let us one and all, my lads,

Place in him our reliance;

His father's and his grandsire's work
Calls loudly for affiance.

St. Aubyn's heir we'll then support—
It is our declaration-

Against the Lords, against the Court,
And every usurpation.

And this is law we will maintain
Unto our dying day, sir,
Sir John St. Aubyn we'll support,
Whatever Courtiers say, sir;
Our independence we'll support,
Whatever Courtiers say, sir.

Coplas de Jorge Manrique.

SIR JOHN BOWRING (1792-1872), born at Exeter, was a voluminous writer in various departments of literature, and the greatest linguist to whom the West of England has given birth. In addition to writing original poetry, he executed poetical translations from every European and all the principal Oriental languages. Coplas de Jorge Manrique is a translation from the Spanish, too long to quote in its entirety. The author died in 1479.

WAKE, awake, my sleeping soul!

Rouse from thy dreams of hope and fear,

And think and see

How soon life's busy moments roll,

How soon the hour of death draws near,

How silently!

COPLAS DE JORGE MANRIQUE.

How swiftly hurrying joy glides by,

And nought but sorrow's shade remains
Of vanished bliss:

And sweeter is the memory

Of other moments' griefs and pains,

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Our lives are rivers flowing on

To that interminable sea,
The mighty grave;

There go, as there have ever gone,
All pomp and pride and royalty,
Which nought can save.

There roll the mountain's rapid streams,
There rolls the little gentle rill,
There mingle all:

Lost in that ocean tide, which seems
To swallow, though unsated still,
The great, the small.

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This world is but a narrow road

That leads us to our home of rest,

Far, far from woe:

So let us march to rest's abode,

And choose our path, the straightest, best,

While on we go.

Our birth begins our pilgrimage,

And life is but our onward way;

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