Part 35

Thomas Passenger.

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St. Bartlemy's mantle wipes dry All the tears that St. Swithun can cry.

Portugal.

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...Happy Britannia!... Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime; Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought; Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy vallies float With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks Bleat numberless; while roving round their sides, Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves. Beneath thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd Against the mower's scythe.

Thomson.

SEPTEMBER

Ancient Cornish name: Miz-guerda gala, white straw month.

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Jewel for the month: Chrysolite. Antidote to madness.

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If the woodcock had but the partridge's thigh, He'd be the best bird that ever did fly. If the partridge had but the woodcock's breast, He'd be the best bird that ever was dress'd.

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HARVEST HWOME.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear O' stannen corn a-left out now, Vor win' to blow or rain to drow; 'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow. Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,--the merry night; The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome.

W. Barnes.

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We have ploughed, we have sowed, We have reaped, we have mowed, We have brought home every load, Hip, hip, hip, Harvest Home.

Gloucester.

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HARVEST TOAST.

Here's a health to the barley mow, Here's a health to the man who very well can Both harrow and plough and sow. When it is well sown, See it is well mown, Both raked and gravell'd clean, And a barn to lay it in, Here's a health to the man who very well can Both thrash and fan it clean.

Suffolk.

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Tramping after grouse or partridge through the soft September air, Both my pockets stuffed with cartridge, and my heart devoid of care.

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September blow soft. Till the fruit's in the loft.