Bedfordshire Ballad. - II.

    "ONE GLASS OF BEER."

    Ne quid nimis.


    Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire man;
    (The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous clan)
    He was happy and healthy and handsome and strong,
    And could sing on occasion a capital song.

    His father had once been a labourer poor,
    But had always contrived to keep want from the door;
    And by work and by thrift had enough in his pocket
    To rent a small farm from his landlord, and stock it.

    He died: Tom succeeded: the ladies all said
    It was high time he went to the Church to be wed;
    And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess,
    Confessed if he "offer'd" perhaps they'd say "Yes."

    But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller's young daughter,
    And was only awaiting the right time to court her;
    So one day as he saw her walk out from the mill,
    He set off in pursuit with a very good will.

    Now Tom, I must tell you, had one little fault,
    He was rather too fond of a mixture of malt;
    In fact, if my meaning is not very clear,
    I'm afraid he was rather too "partial to Beer."

    Says Tom to himself as he followed the maid,
    "I should like just a glass, for I'm rather afraid" -
    No doubt at such times men are nervous and queer,
    So he stopped at the Public for one glass of Beer.

    He had his one glass, and then two or three more,
    And when he set out from the Public-house door
    He saw a sad sight, and he saw it with groans -
    Mary Anne on the arm of Theophilus Jones.

    Yes, Theophilus Jones was a steady young man,
    Who enjoyed but was never too fond of his can;
    And while Smith in the public was stopping to swill,
    Jones had woo'd and had won the fair maid of the mill.

    Tom homeward returned like a runaway pup,
    When the lash of the whipper-in touches him up;
    And he sighed to himself, "It's most painfully clear
    That I've lost a good wife for a bad glass of Beer."

                *            *            *            *            *

    At length he was married to Emily Brown -
    A tidier girl there was none in the town -
    The church bells were ringing, the village was gay,
    As Tom met his bride in her bridal array.

    For a twelvemonth or more things went on pretty straight;
    Tom went early to work, and was never home late;
    But after that time a sad change, it would seem,
    Came over the spirit of Emily's dream.

    The Rector missed Tom from his place in the choir;
    In the evening his wife sat alone by the fire;
    When her husband came home he was never too early,
    And his manner was dull, and at times even surly.

    He was late in the autumn in sowing his wheat;
    His bullocks and sheep had disease of the feet;
    His sows had small litters; his taters went bad;
    And he took just a glass when he felt rather sad.

    The Rector's "good lady" was passing one day,
    And looked in, her usual visit to pay -
    "How dy'e do, Mrs. Smith?    Is the baby quite well?
    Have you got any eggs, or young chickens to sell?"

    But Emily Smith couldn't answer a word;
    At length her reply indistinctly was heard;
    "I'm all of a mullock [1], it's no use denying - "
    And with that the poor woman she burst out a crying.

    Then after a time with her apron she dried
    The tears from her eyes, and more calmly replied,
    "I don't mind confessing the truth, ma'am, to you,
    For I've found in you always a comforter true.

    Things are going to ruin; the land's full o' twitch;
    There's no one to clean out a drain or a ditch;
    The gates are all broken, the fences all down;
    And the state of our farm is the talk of the town.

    We've lost a young horse, and another's gone lame;
    Our hay's not worth carting; the wheat's much the same;
    Our pigs and our cattle are always astray;
    Our milk's good-for-nothing; our hens never lay.

    Tom ain't a bad husband, as husbands do go;
    (That ain't saying much, as I daresay you know)
    But there's one thing that puts him and me out o' gear -
    He's always a craving for one glass of Beer.

    He never gets drunk, but he's always half-fuddled;
    He wastes all his time, and his wits are all muddled;
    "We've notice to quit for next Michaelmas year -
    All owing to Tom and his one glass of Beer!"


    MORAL.

    My friends, I believe we shall none of us quarrel
    If I try from this story to draw out a moral;
    Tom Smith, I am told, has now taken the pledge;
    Let us hope he will keep the right side of the hedge.

    But because men like Tom find it hard to refrain,
    It's hard that we temperate folk should abstain;
    Tea and coffee no doubt are most excellent cheer
    But a hard-working man likes his one glass of Beer.

    What with 'chining [2] and hoeing and ploughing and drill,
    A glass of good beer will not make a man ill;
    But one glass, like poison, you never must touch -
    It's the glass which is commonly called one too much!


[1] Muddle.

[2] Machining, i.e. threshing by machinery.