‘Well, well,’ said Rupert; ‘go on; have you only two more?’

‘Only two,’ said Elizabeth; ’Kate and Lucy behaved as shabbily as you did.  Helen, I believe you must read yours.  I can never read your writing readily, and besides, I am growing hoarse.’

Helen obeyed.

    How hard it is to write a poem,
      Graceful and witty, plain and clear,
    Harder than ploughing—­’tis, or sowing,
      So hard that I should shed a tear.

    Did I not know the highest pitch
      Of merit, in the poet’s eyes
    Is but to laugh, a height to which
      ’Tis not so hard for me to rise.

    For badness soon is gained, forth Bounce
      My rhymes such as they are;
    Good critics, on my lines don’t pounce,
      Though on the ear they Jar.

    I’ve had a letter from dear Frances,
      Who says, through the light plane tree leaves,
    Upon the lawn the sun-beam glances,
      The wheat is bound up in its sheaves

    By Richard, in the fustian Jacket
      His mistress bought at Harrogate,
    And up in lofty ricks they stack it,
      There for the threshing will it wait.

    Then will they turn to fields of barley,
      Bearded and barbed with many an Arrow,
    Just where the fertile soil is marly,
      And in the spring was used the harrow.

    Drawn by the steeds in coats of velvet,
      Old Steady, Jack, and Slattern,
    Their manes well combed, and black as jet,
      Their tails in the same pattern.

    While Richard’s son, with pipe of Pan,
      His hands within his pockets,
    Walks close beside the old plough-man,
      Dreaming of squibs and rockets.

    That youth, he greatly loves his ease,
      He’s growing much too fat,
    And though as strong as Hercules,
      He’ll only use his Bat.

    He won’t sweep up the autumn leaves,
      The tree’s deciduous armour,
    No scolding Dickey’s spirit grieves
      Like working like a farmer,

    Or labouring like his cousin George,
      With arms all bare and brawny,
    Within the blacksmith’s glowing forge;
      He would be in the army.

    But no, young Dick, you’re not the man
      Our realms to watch and ward,
    For worse than a leviathan
      You’d dread the foe’s rear-guard,

    And in the storm of shot and shell,
      You’d soon desert your pennant,
    Care nought for serjeant, corporal,
      Or general lieutenant,

    But prove yourself quite swift and nimble,
      And thus would meet your end;
    No, better take a tailor’s Thimble
      And learn your ways to mend.