THE

FARMER'S DAILY DIET:

BY THOMAS TUSSER.

The following lines exhibit a correct picture of the farmer's mode of living, in this County, at the period when Tusser wrote. In this respect it is highly interesting; and though we find few delicacies of an expensive kind, every thing is substantial and wholesome though plain,-a just representation of the Elizabethan age. Salt meat, and fish both fresh and salted, it is evident, were standing articles of diet.

A PLOT set down for farmer's quiet,
As time requires, to frame his diet:
With sometimes fish, and sometimes fast,
That household store may longer last.
Let Lent, well kept, offend not thee,
For March and April breeders be :
Spend herring first, save salt-fish last,
For salt-fish is good, when Lent is past.
When Easter comes, who knows not than
That veal and bacon is the man ;*

And Martilmas beef † doth bear good tack,
When country folks do dainties lack,
When Macrell ceaseth from the seas,
John Baptist brings grass-beef and pease.
Fresh herring plenty, Michell

brings,

With fatted crones, and such old things.

That is in season, or proper to be used.

Beef dried in the chimney, like bacon, and is so called, because it was usual to kill the beef for this provision about the Feast of St. Martin, Nov. 1.

Michaelmas.

All Saints § do lay for pork and souse,+
For sprats and spurlings + for their house.
At Christmas play, and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes, but once a year.
Though some then do, as do they would,
Let thrifty do, as do they should.

For causes good, so many ways,
Keep Embrings|| well, and fasting-days.
What law commands we ought t' obey,
For Friday, Saturn, and Wednesday.
The land doth will, the sea doth wish,
Spare sometimes flesh, and feed of fish.
Where fish is scant, and fruit of trees,
Supply that want with butter and cheese.

HARVEST HOME:

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

When the labours of the sickle were completed, and when the fruits of the earth were gathered in, and laid up in their proper repositories, it was customary to provide a plentiful supper for the harvest-men, and the servants of the family, who had toiled in securing the wealth of their employer. At this entertainment, all were, in the modern revolutionary idea of the word, perfectly equal. Here was no distinction of persons, but master and servant sat at the same table, conversed freely together, and spent the remainder of the night in dancing, singing, &c. in the most easy familiarity.

All Hallows tide.

Pig's ears, feet, &c. pickled.

† A small sea-fish, probably Smelts. The Ember Days or Weeks.

Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long accustom'd feast of harvest-home.
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;

No triumph please while rage and death destroy:
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?

The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But free and pure the grateful current flows.

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame And gen'rous host invite their friends around, While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground Are guests by right of custom:...old and young, And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng, With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid, When o'er each field the flaming sun-beams play'd.—

Yet plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard, Though not one jelly trembles on the board, Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave; With all that made our great forefathers brave, Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours try'd, And cooks had nature's judgment set aside. With thanks to heaven, and tales of rustic lore, The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er ; A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, As quick the frothing horn performs its round ; Care's mortal foe, that sprightly joys imparts it To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,

And crackling music, with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.

Here once a year distinction low'rs its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
Refills his jug his honour'd host to tend,

To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

THE HAVERHILL MATCHSELLER:

A SUFFOLK TALE.

BY MR. JOHN WEBB.

The unfortunate subject of the following verses is still living, and residing at Haverhill.

SEE yonder abject, squalid form, on which
Disease and want their baleful phials pour;

Upon whose faded cheek, so ghastly pale,

Dull grief has plough'd deep furrows.-Ah! that eye
Has lost its wonted lustre: on the ground
'Tis fix'd intent, nor heeds proud fashion's son,
Who flutters by it; like the gilded fly,
That wantons in gay summer's fervid beam,
And sips sweet nectar from the flowers of June.

How slow he moves! his better hand a staff
Grasps hard, with rude enormous knob,

Such as our antique grandsires us'd, what time
Fair Anna rul'd, and gallant Marlb'rough fought.
But mark! his left, a small and wither'd stump,
A basket holds with sordid matches fill'd.

"Poor mendicant! methinks thy hand was lost "In fighting for thy country and for me! "I'll tarry till thou com'st, and to my cot "Invite thee-woe-worn wretch! my mantling ale "Shall rouse thy drooping spirits, make thy heart, "That seldom knows the pulse of joy, rejoice." 'Tis done the lazy loitering crimson tide Bounds, with a rapid current, thro' his veins: His eye emits a ray replete with fire;

And features, long bedew'd with mis'ry's tear, Brighten in smiles.-Thus oft, when nature mourns Her verdant realms deform'd by drizzly showers, Forth looks the golden sun, and glads the scene.

"Friend," cries the happy beggar, "by that look Inquisitive, I judge that thou would'st like To hear tale of woe:-tis all I canmy

That little all I give.

In yon green vale, that's water'd by a stream,
Unknown to song, for there no woodland bard,
As genius prompted, tun'd his artless reed;
Where beauteous landscapes charm the curious eye;
Where flowers, of every hue, regale the sense;
And congregated songsters feast the ear,
With soft mellifluous symphonies, I drew
My infant breath, and enter'd life's new scene:
My father till'd a small, but fertile farm,