Poems.

MY LIFE.

IN youthful days, not bred at Court to shine,
On homely fare, a humble life I led,
My lot hard labour in the dang'rous mine,

By constant toil to earn my daily bread.
No learning mine, but what myself could glean;
No glit'ring gold or wealth at my command;
Fortune from me still kept behind the scene,

And dealt her favors with a stinted hand. Guided by hope and inclination still,

These, hand in hand, my every doubt remov❜d, And knowledge ever subject to my will,

I always gain'd, and learn'd whate'er I loved. When other youth, with satchel in their hand, Went, day by day, the master's toil to share, My reason led me still to understand,

That wisdom did not always centre there.

By slow gradations, still I struggled on;

From youth to manhood the same path pursued, Took my own task, and when that task was done, Successively the next with pleasure view'd. Still my vocation foll'wing day and night, Perchance ere long a worthy patron rose,

And now, as tho' deserving in his sight,

He crown'd my studies with some small applause. Here fortune smil'd-but in a low degree,

And hope, the sov'reign balm of all our woe, Constant and firm, still pointed out to me,

That I, ere long, a better day might know.

Nor here deceived; for, by experience taught.
Soon to preferment I have found the way:
Though with the change this alteration brought,
I'm doom'd to drudg'ry, 'tis with better pay.

CAMBORNE FAIR.

CROWDS of people mix'd together;

Ladies dress'd to suit the weather;

Laborers in dirty frocks;

Gentlemen with powder'd locks;

Wretches calling for damnation;

Parsons preaching reformation;

Forward youths return'd from College, Boasting of their wit and knowledge; Handicrafts, Jews, mumpers, pedlars,

Spendthrifts, gamesters, dancers, fidlers;

Landlords busy at their calling;

Waiters skipping; drunkards bawling ;

Wanton girls, and silly boys;

Infants pleas'd with gew-gaw toys;

Coaches passing thro' the throng;

Cripples singing mournful song,
How they suffer'd amputation,
Limbs lopp'd off to save the nation:
Darken'd by the nitrous grain,
Others their hard fate complain.
This and more, had you been there,
You'd have seen at Camborne Fair.

THE TOWN.

[Part of this Poem appears to have been copied from “Lines on London," but as it is partly original, the compiler

has thought proper to publish it.]

SPACIOUS streets and handsome buildings,
Cots with ornaments and gildings,

Fill'd with folks of tempers various,
Driving on thro' life precarious;

Parsons, doctors, saints, and sinners;
Broken merchants, new beginners,

Zealous bigots, and freethinkers;

Coblers, shoemakers, and tinkers;

Poverty in shining slippers,

Churchmen, methodists, and dippers;

Wholesale dealers, Jews, and pedlars;

Masons, carpenters, and sadlers;

Gentlemen with powder'd wigs,

Chaises, wheelbarrows, and gigs;

Empty fops, more fools than wise-men,
Bailiffs, lawyers, and excisemen;
Many a beau without a penny,

Idle sots, and drunkards many;

Serious wooers, fortune hunters,

Every one his trade pursuing,
Some to wealth, but more undoing;

Prime Cost shops for ready cash,

Selling out their lay-by trash,

Many a bargain if you'll strike it.

This is Helston,-How d'ye like it?

JOURNEY TO SMELTING-HOUSE.

LAST Friday I'd notice by Captain Chenoweth,

That Saturday I must go down to Treloweth;

A place I had visited often before,

But this was to weigh off some Tin from Wheal Vor.
I've no horse of my own, tho' I've bridle and saddle,

So I made up my mind without either to paddle.
And thus through the journey I tramp'd it on foot,

So gay as a lark, tho' so poor as a Coot.

I sat off from the mine about half after seven,

And arrived at Treloweth 'twixt ten and eleven.

H