Mr. Hood, who is becoming as noted for his heartfelt

or even tragic appeals on behalf of homely interests as for his facetim, has put the la- bourer's claim into verse. It reads as if it were but newly uttered front the labourer's mouth, the mouth of the very man himself ; only falling into rhythm by some vis poetica in the subject or the strength of feeling.

TLIE LAY OF THE LABOURER.

[From Hood's Magazine, for November.]

A spade ! a rake ! oboe! A pickaxe, or a bill I A hook to reap, or a seithe to mow,

A flail, or what ye will!

And here's a ready baud To ply the needful tool, And skill'il enough, by lessons rough lu Labour's rugged school, To hedge, or dig the ditch, To lop or fell the tree, To lay the swarth ou the sultry field, Or plough the stubborn lea, The harvest stack to bind, The wheateu rick to thatch : And never fear in my pouch to find The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm

My fancies never roans—

The fire I yearn to kindle and burn Is on the hearth of home ; Where children huddle and crouch Through dark long winter days, Where starving children huddle and crouch To see the cheerful rays, A-glowing on the haggard cheek,

And not in the haggard's blaze 1

To Him who sends a drought To parch the fields forlorn, The rain to flood the meadows with mud,

The blight to bleat the corn—

To Him I leave to guide The bolt in its crooked path.

To strike the miser's rick. and show The skies blood-red with wrath.

A spade ! a rake I hoe! A pickaxe. or a bill I A hook to reap, or a 'oldie to mow, A flail, or what ye will I

The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,

The market team to drive, Or mend the fence by the cover-side, And leave the game alive.

Ay, only give me work, And then you need not fear That I shall snare his Worship's hare,

Or kill his Grace's deer—

Break into his Lordship's honse, To steal the plate so rich.

Or leave the yeoman that had a purse To welter in a ditch. Wherever Nature needs, Wherever Labour calls,

No job 1'11 shirk of the hardest work,

To shun the Workhouse walls ; Where savage laws begrudge The pauper babe its breath, And doom a wife to ii widow's life Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this, With labour stiff and stark, By lawful turn my living to earn,

Between the light and dark—

My daily bread and nightly bed,

My bacon and drop of beer—

But all from the baud that holds the laud, And none from the overseer

No ,parish money or loaf, Nu pauper badges for me,

A son of the soil, by right of toil, Entitled to my fee.

No alms I ask, give me my task :

Here are the arm, the leg, The strength, the sinews ot a man, To work, sad not to beg.

Still one of Adam's heirs.

Though doomed by chance of birth.

To dress so meau, and to eat the lean. Instead of the fat of the earths ; To make such humble meals As honest labour can.

A bone and a crust, with grace to God, And little thanks to man!

A spade! a rake ! a hoe I A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scithe to mow,. A flail, or what ye will I, Whatever the tool to ply, Here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb-and wo to hire Who does their pay begrudge!

Who every weekly score Docks labour's tilde mite.

Bestows on the poor at the temple-door.

But robb'd them over-night.

The very shilling he hoped to save.

As health and morals fail, Shall visit me in the New Bastile, The Spilal or the Gaol!