by FRANCIS HINDES GROOME william blackwood and sons edinburgh and london mdcccxcv All Rights reserved to MOWBRAY DONNE the friend of these two friends Robert Hindes Groome...

Published originally in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’ four and six years ago, and now a good deal extended, these two papers, I think, will be welcome to many in East Anglia who knew my father, and to more, the world over, who know FitzGerald’s letters and translations.  I may say this with the better grace and greater confidence, as in both there is so much that is not mine, and both have already brought me so many kindly letters—from Freshwater, Putney Hill, Liverpool, Cambridge, Aldeburgh, Italy, th

Fŏoks alluz säa as they git old,    That things look wusser evry day; They alluz sed so, I consate;    Leastwise I’ve h’ard my mother säa, When she was growed up, a big gal,    And went to sarvice at the Hall, She han’t but one stuff gownd to wear,    And not the lissest mite of shawl. But now yeou cäan’t tell whue is whue;    Which is the missus, which the maid, There ain’t no tellin’; for a gal,    Arter she’s got her wages paid, Will put ’em all upon her back,    And look as grand as grand ca

My father used to repeat one stanza of an old song; I wonder whether the remainder still exists in any living memory.  That one stanza ran:— “The roaring boys of Pakefield,    Oh, how they all do thrive! They had but one poor parson,    And him they buried alive.” Whether the prosperity of Pakefield was to be dated or derived from the fact of their burying their “one poor parson” is a matter of dangerous speculation, and had better be left in safe obscurity; else other places might be tempted to

I am werry much obligated to yeou, Mr Editer, for printin’ my lines.  I hain’t got no more at spresent, so I’ll send yeou a queery instead.  I axed our skule-master, “What’s a queery?” and he säa, “Suffen [43a] queer,” so I think I can sute yeou here. When I was a good big chap, I lived along with Mr Cooper, of Thräanson. [43b]   He was a big man; but, lawk! he was wonnerful päad over with rheumatics, that he was.  I lived in the house, and arter I had done up my hosses, and looked arter my stoc

      “That piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night.” —‘Twelfth Night,’ II. iv. This old song was lately taken down from the lips of an old Suffolk (Monk Soham) labourer, who has known it and sung it since he was a boy.  The song is of much repute in the parish where he lives, and may possibly be already in print.  At all events it is a genuine “old and antique” song, whose hero may have been one of the sea captains or rovers who continued their privateering in the Spanish M

Not many years since, not far from Ipswich, some practical agriculturists met—as, for all I know, they may meet now—at a Farmers’ Club to discuss such questions as bear practically upon their business and interests.  One evening the subject for discussion was, “How to cure hot yards,” i.e. , yards where the manure has become so heated as to be hurtful to the cattle’s feet.  Many remedies were suggested, some no doubt well worth trying, others dealing too much maybe in small-talk of acids and alk

A Suffolk Clergyman’s Reminiscence . [52a] Our young parson said to me t’other däa, “John,” sez he, “din’t yeou nivver hev a darter?”  “Sar,” sez I, “I had one once, but she ha’ been dead close on thatty years.”  And then I towd him about my poor mor. [52b] “I lost my fust wife thatty-three years ago.  She left me with six bors and Susan.  She was the owdest of them all, tarned sixteen when her mother died.  She was a fine jolly gal, with lots of sperit.  I coon’t be alluz at home, and tho’ I’d

Robin Cook’s wife [58a] she had an old mare, [58b]    Humpf, humpf, hididdle, humpf! And if you’d but seen her, Lord! how you’d have stared, [58c]    Singing, “Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf.” This old mare she had a sore back, [58d]    Humpf, &c. And on her sore back there was hullt an old sack, [58e]    Singing, &c. Give the old mare some corn in the sieve, [59a]    Humpf, &c. And ’tis hoping God’s husband ( sic ) the old mare may live,    Singing, &c. This old

A Suffolk Labourer’s Story . The Owd Master at the Hall had two children—Mr James and Miss Mary.  Mr James was ivver so much owder than Miss Mary.  She come kind o’ unexpected like, and she warn’t but a little thing when she lost her mother.  When she got owd enough Owd Master sent her to a young ladies’ skule.  She was there a soot o’ years, and when she come to stäa at home, she was such a pretty young lady, that she was.  She was werry fond of cumpany, but there warn’t the lissest bit wrong a

“How prosperously I have served the State, And how in the Midsummer of Success A double Thunderbolt from heav’n has struck On mine own roof, Rome needs not to be told, Who has so lately witness’d through her Streets, Together, moving with unequal March, My Triumph and the Funeral of my Sons. Yet bear with me if in a few brief words, And no invidious Spirit, I compare With the full measure of the general Joy My private Destitution.  When the Fleet Was all equipp’d, ’twas at the break of day That

Music score “ Lord , have mercy .” 1.  Lord , who wast content to die, That poor sinners may draw nigh cres.   To the throne of grace on high, p   Miserere , Domine . 2.  Who dost hear my every groan, Intercedest at the throne, cres.   Making my poor prayers Thine own, p   Miserere , Domine . 3.  When some sorrow, pressing sore, Tells me, that life nevermore cres.   Can be, as it was of yore, p   Miserere , Domine . 4.  Let me hear the Voice, that said, “It is I, be not afraid”; cres.   So the s