scarcely seem afloat.

Southampton docks were sheets of mud,
Grim colliers at the quay.
No tramway, and no slender pier
To stretch into the sea.

I remember, I remember,
Long years ere Rowland Hill,
When letters covered quarto sheets
Writ with a grey goose quill;

Both hard to fold and hard to read,
Crossed to the scarlet seal;
Hardest of all to pay for ere
Their news they might reveal.

No stamp with royal head was there,
But eightpence was the sum
For every letter, all alike,
That did from London come!

I remember, I remember,
The mowing of the hay;
Scythes sweeping through the heavy grass
At breaking of the day.

The haymakers in merry ranks
Tossing the swaths so sweet,
The haycocks tanning olive-brown
In glowing summer heat.

The reapers 'mid the ruddy wheat,
The thumping of the flail,
The winnowing within the barn
By whirling round a sail.

Long ere the whirr, and buz, and rush
Became a harvest sound,
Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes,
Or ploughed the fallow ground.

Our sparks flew from the flint and steel,
No lucifers were known,
Snuffers with tallow candles came
To prune the wick o'ergrown.

Hands did the work of engines then,
But now some new machine
Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams,
And make the cakes, I ween.

I remember, I remember,
The homely village school,
The dame with spelling book and rod,
The sceptre of her rule.

A black silk bonnet on her head,
Buff kerchief on her neck,
With spectacles upon her nose,
And apron of blue check.

Ah, then were no inspection days,
No standards then were known,
Children could freely make dirt pies,
And learning let alone!

Those Sundays I remember too,
When Service there was one;
For living in the parish then
Of clergy there were none.

And oh, I can recall to mind,
The Church and every pew;
William and Mary's royal arms
Hung up in fullest view.

The lion smiling, with his tongue
Like a pug dog's hung out;
The unicorn with twisted horn
Brooding upon his rout.

Exalted in the gallery high
The tuneful village choir,
With flute, bassoon, and clarionet,
Their notes rose high and higher.

They shewed the number of the Psalm
In white upon a slate,
And many a time the last lines sung
Of Brady and of Tate.

While far below upon the floor
Along the narrow aisle,
The children on then benches sat
Ar