still exists in any living memory.  That one stanza ran:—

“The roaring boys of Pakefield,
   Oh, how they all do thrive!
They had but one poor parson,
   And him they buried alive.”

Whether the prosperity of Pakefield was to be dated or derived from the fact of their burying their “one poor parson” is a matter of dangerous speculation, and had better be left in safe obscurity; else other places might be tempted to make trial of the successful plan.  But can any one send a copy of the whole song?

From the same authority I give a stanza of another song:—

“The cackling old hen she began to collogue,
Says she unto the fox, ‘You’re a stinking old rogue;
Your scent it is so strong, I do wish you’d keep away;’
The cackling old hen she began for to say.”

The tune, as I still remember it, is as fine as the words—for fine they certainly are, as an honest expression of opinion, capable of a large application to other than foxes.

I cannot vouch for a like antiquity for the following sea-verses; but they are so good that I venture to append them to their more ancient brethren:—

“And now we haul to the ‘Dog and Bell,’
Where there’s good liquor for to sell;
In come old Archer with a smile,
Saying, ‘Drink, my lads, ’tis worth your while.’

Ah! but when our money’s all gone and spent,
And none to be borrowed nor none to be lent;
In comes old Archer with a frown,
Saying, ‘Get up, Jack, let John sit down.’”

Alas, poor Jack! and John Countryman too, when the like result arrives.

J. D.

Fifteen years after my father had penned this note, and more than two years after his death, I received from a

West Indian reader of ‘Maga,’ who had heard it sung by a naval officer (since deceased), the following version of the second sea-song:—

“Cruising in the Channel with the wind North-east,
Our ship she sails nine knots at least;
Our thundering guns we will let fly,
We will let fly over the twinkling sky—
   Huzza! we are homeward bound,
   Huzza! we are homeward bound.

And when we arrive at the Plymouth Dock,
The girls they will around us flock,
Saying, ‘Welcome, Jack, with your three years’ pay,
For we see you are homeward bound to-day’—
   Huzza! we are homeward bound,
   Huzza! we are homeward bound.

And when we come to the --- [42] Bar,
Or any other port in so far,
Old Okey meets us with a smile,
Saying, ‘Drink, my lads, ’tis worth your while’—
   Huzza! we are homeward bound,
   Huzza! we are homeward bound.

Ah! but when our money’s all gone and spent,
And none to be borrowed, nor none to be lent,
Old Okey meets us with a frown,
Saying, ‘Get up, Jack, let John sit down,
   For I see you are outward bound,’
   For, see, we are outward bound.”

III.
ONE OF JOHN DUTFEN’S “QUEERIES.”

I am werry much obligated to yeou, Mr Editer, for printin’ my lines.  I hain’t got no more at spresent, so I’ll send yeou a queery instead.  I axed our skule-master, “What’s a queery?” and he säa, “Suffen [43a] queer,” so I think I can sute yeou here.

When I was a good big chap, I lived along with Mr Cooper, of Thräanson. [43b]  He was a big man; but, lawk! he was wonnerful päad over with rheumatics, that he was.  I lived in the house, and arter I had done up my hosses, and looked arter my stock, I alluz went to bed arly.  One night I h’ard [43c] my missus halloin’ at the bottom of the stairs.  “John,” sez she, “yeou must git up di-rectly, and go for the doctor; yar master’s took werry bad.”  So I hulled [43d] on my clothes, put the saddle on owd Boxer, and warn’t long gittin to the doctor’s, for the owd hoss stromed along stammingly, [43e] he did.  When the doctor come, he säa to master, “Yeou ha’ got the lump-ague in yar lines; [43f] yeou must hiv a hot baath.”  “What’s that?” sez master.  “Oh!” sez the doctor, “yeou must hiv yar biggest tub full o’ hot water, and läa in it ten

minnits.”  Sune as he was gone, missus säa, “Dew yeou go and call Sam Driver, and I’ll hit [44a] the copper.”  When we cum back, she säa, “Dew yeou tew [44b] take the mashin’-tub up-stairs, and when the water biles yeou cum for it.”  So, byne by we filled the tub, and missus säa, “John, dew yeou take yar master’s hid; [44c] and Sam, yeou take his feet, and drop ’im in.”  We had a rare job to lift him, I warrant; but we dropt him in, and, O lawk! how he did screech!—yeou might ha’ h’ard ’im a mile off.  He splounced out o’ the tub flop upon the floor, and dew all we could we coon’t ’tice him in agin.  “Yeou willans,” sez he, “yeou’ve kilt me.”  But arter a bit we got him to bed, and he läa kind o’ easy, till the doctor cum next mornin’.  Then he towd the doctor how bad he was.  The doctor axed me what we’d done.  So I towd him, and he säa, “Was the water warm?”  “Warm!” sez I, “’twould ommost ha’ scalt a hog.”  Oh, how he did lâff!  “Why, John bor,” sez he, “yeou must ha’ meant to bile yar master alive.”  Howsomdiver, master lost the lump-ague and nivver sed nothin’ about the tub, ’cept when he säa to me sometimes kind o’ joky, “John bor, dew yeou alluz kip [44d] out o’ hot water.”