Then onward by Sea and by Land,
Since there's no other course to pursue,
Let old England and France hand in hand,
Show the world what, combined, they can do;
Let our scabbardless swords meet the light,
Down, down with the Tyrant! our cry,
'Tis for honour and justice we fight.
So forward ! to conquer or die.
Then up with the Standard of England, &c.
My Old Wife is a good Old Cratur.
With this, as with everything else that has proceeded from my pen, there was an attendant incident from which it sprung.
Some years ago, I had occasion to cross the moors that lie between Howsley and Chesterfield. It was in March, and the busy bracing wind was fully engaged in keeping up the character of the month; it was blowing anyhow, and only as a "high-peak wind, in a passion," knows how to blow, when I saw approaching me a horse and cart, seated in which was a hardy, healthy-looking old couple, that it did one's heart good to look upon. Just before we met, the old man, after doing battle bravely with his hat, which evinced an insane desire to leave his head (I may observe the old lady was driving), he suddenly cried, "Wo! my man!" Now, this was not addressed to me, as you may perhaps imagine it was, there being just then no one else about, but to the old chestnut horse; his better half—better half, be hanged—his better three-quarters—was driving. My man didn't want saying "Wo!" twice to, so he stopped, and the old lady, for she acted like one, after tying a small handkerchief over the old man's head and under his chin, thus reducing the refractory beaver to a proper sense of obedience, was in the act of turning up his top coat collar, when I had got near enough to say, "Take care of him, missis—that's right, take care of him;"
