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; Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right, H But, thinks I too, these banks within which we are pent In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey, and narrow the way, 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, 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, For Cornwall's trust his grandson asks, Give them a good foundation, And this is law he did maintain His independence he would keep, Then let us one and all, my lads, Place in him our reliance; His father's and his grandsire's work St. Aubyn's heir we'll then support— Against the Lords, against the Court, And this is law we will maintain 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 And sweeter is the memory Of other moments' griefs and pains, Our lives are rivers flowing on To that interminable sea, There go, as there have ever gone, There roll the mountain's rapid streams, Lost in that ocean tide, which seems 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; ΙΟΙ |