POETRY.

THE DERBYSHIRE FLYMAN'S STORY.

AT Buxton, by the broad, green slopes 'twist the lower town and the higher,

On the steep roadside beneath the trees, stand carriages for hire. There—one fair morning in lovely May, when summer seemed close at hand—

A driver sat on his carriage-box, the first upon the stand.

We liked his sunburnt, pleasant face, and we liked his brave little horse, And they seemed to like us,—so a bargain was simply a matter of course.

He did not disappoint our hopes, and he knew the road right well, And the sad and the merry traditions of the places we passed could tell. .

But he loved far best, 'twas very clear, the stories that were most gay ; And the air with the tones of his jolly voice rang loud as we- wended our way.

It lay among scenes as varied as a summer's day can show,— Passing from frowning gorges to meadows with flowers aglow ; From cloud-clad cliffs, like a series of battlemented towers Draped with the solemn cypress and heavy with ivy flowers, To gently sloping woodlands, all blue with the hyacinth bell; And the river, where banks of forget-me-nots filled the fairy- like dell; From moors—a wild chaos of boulders, of a grey and golden hue-- To a vale that lay far, far below, and that stretched away ta the blue.

But the heart lingered longest about one spot, a pastoral homely scene, Where an ancient farmstead nestled down 'amongst sycamores massive and greeh, And high thorn hedges that shook white showers of petals to the breeze ; Where stacks, and barns with lichened roofs, peeped out amongst the trees ; The smell of the wall-flowers filled the air from the garden— old-fashioned and trim, With its gooseberry-bushes, flanking the flowers, and yews fantastic and grim.

'Twas here our good driver checked his horse, and the smiles his strong face forsook,

And he turnsd right round on his carriage-box, and his eyes had a solemn look. Eh, but it wasn't like this, he said, when I wor 'ere one night, The snow were deep upo' the ground, and there warn% a speck o' light.

I'd been to York, at week afore, to see my mother die, And t' poor thing made me promise that r Booxton she should lie.

So t' day before the funeral I borrowed a spring cart, And I put my own 'orse into t' shafts, and we made a hearly start.

'Twere four o'clock—but I tell you what—'twere four o'clock twice o'er

More I drew up, by t' gleam o' the fire, under my own back- door,—

But I'm tellin' a lie, for yer may depend I 'adn't no need to draw.

But I'm gettin' on a deal too fast. It's areal 'eartbreaking road, And t' further 'at we went, it seemed the distance fairly growed ; And it snowed the 'ole o' that blessed morn—eh, 'ow it did come down !

And all upo' t' near side—t' old 'orse 'e looked like a circus clown ; 'Twere laughable to see him—'alf a great big ball o' snow, And t'other 'alf a little brown 'orse—but in good condition, yer know.

But, 'owever, we getten to Sheffield at t' last, to t' sign o' the "Knife and Fork," But I 'adn't a while to use 'em much, as I'd got to get on to York ; And I felt myself lucky to catch t' right train, for I'd said I'd get 'ome that night ; And my missus were young i' those days, poor thing, and apt to get in a fright.

Well, my mother's coffin it looked that lonely, my 'eart was fairly broke ; Neither kith nor kin to 'er now but me,—though the neigh- bours was kindly spoke,

And they lent a hand to the st,ation yard, and the loan of a decentish pall—

For I couldn't afford no more nor a truck, and t' snow were commenein' to fall.

Well, at Sheffield I got me a bit and a sup, and by ten we'd getten away I'd 'a' stopped all night, for weather were wild, but my mother she'd used to say As Sheffield were what 'er • could never abide ; and I couldn't find r my 'cart To keep 'er there agen 'er will, when 'er couldn't take 'er own part.

When t'moors was passed and Baslow too, and we'd gotten to this 'ere spot, Thinks I, "I'll let Bob breathe a bit," so I stopped, and down I got, And I thought I'd 'ave a bit of a smoke, but my 'ands was both that stiff.

I could 'ardly get at my baccy-box, though I sorely wanted a whiff.

'Oweveri I found it at t' last all right, and I found the matches too, But they wouldn't keep light, and I couldn't think whatever I should do.

The wind were rough, and I drew my coat—my macintosh '.owever-

Around, and tried to coax a light; but I never got one, never. And, see yer, I got behind you post,—yon gate-post, see yer, there; You great, stone post afore the 'ouse—but t' wind were every- where.

Eh, 'twere that dark, and t' wind that cold, and t' snow Bo hawful deep, If it 'ad no' been my own old mother 'at was there i"er coffin asleep • I dew believe I'd 'a left them all just where they was, and fled ; But she'd suffered a deal for me, poor thing, and now, poor ionl, she were dead I Well, I knocked at that door, but they didn't 'ear—leastways, they did'nt let on, So we started again, but Bob, poor beast, 'is spent were well- nigh gone; For we'd done over twenty-eight mile r t' morn, and sixteen more to this ; And it's my op-pinion as coffin boards is 'eaviest boards there is ; But there—'twas my mother—" I wish," she says, "to lie r Booxton yard "— And if 'er own son could'nt give 'er 'er wish, I think it be very 'ard.

So we at it once more, and r Ashford town I tried again for my Pipe,

But I tried i' vain.; they were all i' bed, and I went without smoke or swipe.

And then we'd to breast the Ashford brow, and up past Tad- din'ton Church, And, at after all, I really thought I man 'ave to leave them t' lurch ; But we got to t' top—and, as long as I live, may I ne'er 'ave to do the like.

The level bit were none so bad—nor yet down Topley pike— But eh, the drag right up the dale—I wondered Bob 'adn't died— And the brow at 'ome ! When I saw the missus, I fairly sat and cried.

She thought it were t' loss of poor old mother, and I couldn't for shame tell t' truth.

Well—I laid 'er next day i' the old Church-yard, where my father were laid r their youth.