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.

p. 46The 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

   Arranged in single file

And there the clerk would stump along

   And strike with echoing blow

Each idle guilty little head

   That chattered loud or low.

Ah! I remember many things,

   Old middle-aged, and new;

Is the new better than the old,

   More bright, more wise, more true?

The old must ever pass away,

   The new must still come in;

When these new things are old to you

   Be they unstained by sin.

So will their memory be sweet,

   A treasury of bliss

To be borne with us in the days

   When we their presence miss.

Trifles connected with the love

   Of many a vanished friend

Will thrill the heart and wake the sense,

   For memory has no end!

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