POETRY.

A SONG OF CEDER.

TRIB grand haying weather do make a man dry, And the harvest flies tickle his thrapple.

But the drink as best layeth the dust o' July Is the drink that is squeezed from an apple.

Aye, 'twas tipsy wold Noah who planted the vine, And got totty the vurst time he tried 'er : But the Lord maketh apples, and apples make wine, The wine that makes Zummerset faces to shine : Oh! never a vintage on Tagus or Rhine Can match with our Zummerset cider!

Our wold-vashioned Zummerset cider !

When you've got a good taterin' hunger* to edge Your teeth for the vinest of dinners : Brown bread and wold cheese in the shade of a hedge : Then 'tis cider will supple your sinners.

And a gallon stone jar there be nought to surpass (Do keep it more cool than a bottle), Let us bide for a bit in the tussocky grass,

Forgot by the scythe when the mowers did pass; Then drink from the jar ! Don't 'ea use ne'er a glass!

Ah! how sweet a will slip down your throttle!

Liquid sunshine a-poured down your throttle!

I do think what a terrible pity it were As there wasn't no cider in Eden.

For spite o' tie sarpint we'd all a been there

On lilies and rases a-feedun'.

Aye! Eve med be zitting in Paradise yet, And Adam a-smoking beside her, If the day that yon wily old la-yer they met, They bad but a zaved thiccy apple they eat.: Adam's apple still fast in our gullets a set : For the very next making o' cider : For you niver see sarpints, on cider !

There! I've praiched t'ye so long. I be dry as a !

Go fetch us a quart from the cellar !

Bring un here—dra' nn careful, mun—how the cark sticks! The liquor did ought to be meller, So long it has lain underground in the gloom, Thick sealed by the diligent spider ! • Whoosh! Pop ! Out a comes! How it fills the whole room With the scent of a Quantockside orchard in bloom : The blossom's faint sweetness, the ripe fruit's perfume!

Our sweet-scented, gold-tinted cider !

King's wine is our Zummerset cider !

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.