p. 107. of Dibdin's Typographical Antiquities, and in Vol. 1. pp. 11, 12. of the 2nd day of his Decameron, contained upon the margins thereof certain written rhymes, in an ancient hand, of a strange and mysterious nature: to wit, "the Little Credo," "the White "Paternoster," and the following curious
PETERS Brother where lyest all night?
There as Chryst y yod.
What hast in thy honde? heauen keyes.
What hast in thy tother?
Broade booke leaues.
Open heauen gates,
Shutt hell yeates.
Euerie childe creepe christ ouer
White Benedictus be in this howse
Within & without. This howse rounde about
St. Peter att the one doore
St. Paule att the other
St. Michael in the middle
Fyer in the flatt
Chancell-op shatt
Euerie naugers bore
An Angell before.
THE PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER:
SUFFOLK BALLAD FROM REAL LIFE.
Though divines of contentment may preach,
And the learn'd of philosophy prate,
How few wisdom's temple can reach,
How few are content with their state!
A philosopher lately I've seen,
In his lowly condition content;
Unrack'd with the gout or the spleen,
In a jacket oft patch'd, and yet rent.
Thus, the green pliant willow that bends
To the blasts o'er the valley that sweep,
While the proud mountain oak that contends
Is rent from the side of the steep.
No time had Dick Delver to play,
In youth he no play-things did lack;
Lonely watch'd he the grunters all day,
As they rooted the stubble for shack.
Dick Delver, poor fellow, fell lame,
A keen frosty night nipt his toes;
To the fire he unthinkingly came,
And lost them, while sunk in a doze.
A poor-house Dick Delver receiv'd,
For what could the poor fellow do?
Not long for his toes Dicky griev❜d,
But began a young widow to woo.
For idleness, wise men remark,
Is the parent of mischief and love:
The widow grew pleas'd with her spark,
And consented his helpmate to prove.
Her husband had fall'n 'mongst the slain,
And left her whole months to bemoan;
Untouch'd could a fond heart remain,
When Dick for the loss could atone?
They wedded:-their time gaily pass'd,
No taxes, or debts spoil'd their rest;
Each sun rose as bright as the last,
But what mortal can always be blest? Dick Delver no widow had wed,
Her husband, tho' down, was not slain; Like a hero he valiantly bled,
And return'd his own deary to claim. Dick Delver the charmer resign'd,
Whom no longer he dar'd to retain,
And journey'd, like folks more refin'd,
To search for a doxy again.
To London Dick Delver now hied,
Laid siege to a shoe-blacking dame :
The lady of blacking complied,
And united they quickly became.
Of relations the lady could boast,
And doubtless of no mean degree,
Who liv'd where the rocks of the coast
Are wash'd by the spray of the sea.
From ocean the lady had sprung,
As Venus they say did of old;
And Neptune had giv'n her a tongue,
Like Juno, the goddess, to scold.
Dick Delver and spousy left town
A visit of friendship to pay;
But scarcely a week had been down,
When they were not permitted to stay.
Then plac'd in an overseer's cart,
To his settlement off they were sent ;
Mistress Delver was loth to depart,
But Dicky was always content.
To the sandlands* of Suffolk, with speed,
The pair in the cart were convey'd,
Where heath-nibbling black faces feed,
And burrows by rabbits are made.
No rabbits or sheep could delight
The soul of Dick Delver's dear spouse,
Who'd rather have seen porters fight,
Than crones on the prickly whin browze.
Around her she gaz'd with surprize,
When churches like stables she saw,
Where no lofty steeplest arise
The travellers attention to draw.
"What a dull dreary country, she said
"These sandlands I cannot abide :"
Then off in a tangent she sped,
And Dick heard no more of his bride.
The sandland part of this county is that tract of land, which reaches from the river Orwell, by the sea-coast, to Yarmouth; and is nearly separated from the woodlands by the great road leading from Ipswich, through Saxmundham and Beccles, to Yarmouth. It, therefore, contains the Hundred of Colneis, and parts of the Hundreds of Carlford, Loes, Wilford, Plomesgate, Blything, Mut. ford, and Lothingland. But the title of sandland is given, more peculiarly, to the whole extent of country south of the line of Woodbridge and Orford, where a large extent of poor and even blowing sand is to be found.
+ The churches of Eyke and Sutton are both without steeples.
Dick Delver got married once more,
Rear'd a cot by the side of the road;
Of dickies and donkies keeps four,
And industry decks his abode.
For sand and for whin-roots he digs,
And sells them as fast as he can ;
Grows potatoes, keeps chickens and pigs;
Is not Dick now become a great man?
Where a bridge* the fair Deben bestrides,
And his fountains first mingle with brine,
There Dick, in his hall, now resides,
With a cart-lodge and donkey-shed fine.
Four trees, on the north, screen his cot,
A church, in the back ground, you spy,
And gypsies, encamp'd near the spot,
Oft hang out their tatters to dry.
The sedge blossoms yellow below,
Blue hyacinths cover the hills ;
While the nightingale's love or his woe
The valley, with melody, fills.
If all like Dick Delver would toil;
Were all like Dick Delver content;
Each brow would be bright with a smile,
And none to a prison be sent.
"In a life of husbandry," says Sir John Cullum in his interesting and well-written History of Hansted, "the harvest is ever an affair of the greatest consequence. I have therefore," says he, "given a year's
* Wilford bridge, near Melton.
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