And so he got on; he was no millionaire,
  But he always had money enough and to spare;
  Could help a poor friend; pay his rent and his rate;
  And always put silver at church in the plate.

  His brother, meantime, who was thought to be dead,
  Had across the Atlantic to Canada fled;
  Then had gone to New York; then New Zealand had tried;
  But always had failed thro’ perverseness and pride.

  He might have done well, but wherever he went,
  As soon as his money came in, it was spent;
  As of old he tried all trades, and prospered in none,
  For he thought that hard work was “a poor sort of fun.”

  Then he heard of “the diggings,” and there tried his luck;
  He was never deficient in smartness and pluck;
  And by means of some work, and more luck, in a year
  He managed to make fifteen hundred pounds clear.

  Then he thought of old England and Bedfordshire chums,
  So back to his parish in triumph he comes;
  And need I remark he found many a friend
  Right willing to help him his nuggets to spend?

  He turned up his nose at his poor brother Bill,
  Who was always content to be plodding up hill;
  Hard work he disliked, he despised peace and quiet,
  So he spent all his time and his money in riot.

  There was never a horse-race but Fred he was there;
  He went to each meet, meeting, marker and fair;
  In a few words, his candle he burnt to the socket,
  Till he found one fine day not a rap in His pocket.

  Then his poor brother Bill came and lent him a hand;
  Gave him work and a share of his own bit of land;
  If he means to keep steady I cannot surmise—­
  Let us hope that at length Fred has learnt to be wise.

  But one thing is plain, if you mean to get on,
  You will find that success must by patience be won;
  In the battle of life do not trust to your luck,
  But to honest hard work, perseverance, and pluck.

  Don’t turn up your nose at a hard-working chap,
  For pride soon or later must meet with mishap;
  And wherever your lot in the world may be cast,
  “Slow and steady” goes safer than “foolish and fast.”

  Take warning by Fred, and avoid for a friend
  The man who would tempt you your savings to spend;
  Don’t waste your spare money in riotous pranks,
  But put it in Penny, or Post-office Banks.

BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—­IV.

  HOME, SWEET HOME.

  I’m a Bedfordshire Chap, and Bill Stumps is my name,
  And to tell it don’t give me no manner of shame;
  For a man as works honest and hard for his livin’,
  When he tells you his name, needn’t feel no misgivin’.

  And works’s what I live by.  At dawn o’ the day,
  While some folks is snorin’, I’m up and away;
  When I stops for my Bavor [1], ’twould dew your heart good,
  To see how I relish the taste o’ my food.