Old Times at Otterbourne

Old Remembrances.

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I remember, I remember,

Old times at Otterbourne,

Before the building of the Church,

And when smock frocks were worn!

I remember, I remember,

When railroads there were none,

When by stage coach at early dawn

The journey was begun.

And through the turnpike roads till eve

Trotted the horses four,

With inside passengers and out

They carried near a score.

"Red Rover" and the "Telegraph,"

We knew them all by name,

And Mason's and the Oxford coach,

Full thirty of them came.

The coachman wore his many capes,

The guard his bugle blew;

The horses were a gallant sight,

Dashing upon our view.

I remember, I remember,

The posting days of old;

The yellow chariot lined with blue

And lace of colour gold.

The post-boys' jackets blue or buff,

The inns upon the road;

The hills up which we used to walk

To lighten thus the load.

The rattling up before the inn,

The horses led away,

The post-boy as he touched his hat

And came to ask his pay.

The perch aloft upon the box,

Delightful for the view;

The turnpike gates whose keepers stood

Demanding each his due.

I remember, I remember,

When ships were beauteous things,

The floating castles of the deep

Borne upon snow-white wings;

Ere iron-clads and turret ships,

Ugly as evil dream,

Became the hideous progeny

Of iron and of steam.

You crossed the Itchen ferry

All in an open boat,

Now, on a panting hissing bridge

You scarcely seem afloat.

Southampton docks were sheets of mud,

Grim colliers at the quay.

No tramway, and no slender pier

To stretch into the sea.

I remember, I remember,

Long years ere Rowland Hill,

When letters covered quarto sheets

Writ with a grey goose quill;

Both hard to fold and hard to read,

Crossed to the scarlet seal;

Hardest of all to pay for ere

Their news they might reveal.

No stamp with royal head was there,

But eightpence was the sum

For every letter, all alike,

That did from London come!

I remember, I remember,

The mowing of the hay;

Scythes sweeping through the heavy grass

At breaking of the day.

The haymakers in merry ranks

Tossing the swaths so sweet,

The haycocks tanning olive-brown

In glowing summer heat.

The reapers 'mid the ruddy wheat,

The thumping of the flail,

The winnowing within the barn

By whirling round a sail.

Long ere the whirr, and buz, and rush

Became a harvest sound,

Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes,

Or ploughed the fallow ground.

Our sparks flew from the flint and steel,

No lucifers were known,

Snuffers with tallow candles came

To prune the wick o'ergrown.

Hands did the work of engines then,

But now some new machine

Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams,

And make the cakes, I ween.

I remember, I remember,

The homely village school,

The dame with spelling book and rod,

The sceptre of her rule.

A black silk bonnet on her head,

Buff kerchief on her neck,

With spectacles upon her nose,

And apron of blue check.

Ah, then were no inspection days,

No standards then were known,

Children could freely make dirt pies,

And learning let alone!

Those Sundays I remember too,

When Service there was one;

For living in the parish then

Of clergy there were none.

And oh, I can recall to mind,

The Church and every pew;

William and Mary's royal arms

Hung up in fullest view.

The lion smiling, with his tongue

Like a pug dog's hung out;

The unicorn with twisted horn

Brooding upon his rout.

Exalted in the gallery high

The tuneful village choir,

With flute, bassoon, and clarionet,

Their notes rose high and higher.

They shewed the number of the Psalm

In white upon a slate,

And many a time the last lines sung

Of Brady and of Tate.

While far below upon the floor

Along the narrow aisle,

The children on then benches sat

Arranged in single file

And there the clerk would stump along

And strike with echoing blow

Each idle guilty little head

That chattered loud or low.

Ah! I remember many things,

Old middle-aged, and new;

Is the new better than the old,

More bright, more wise, more true?

The old must ever pass away,

The new must still come in;

When these new things are old to you

Be they unstained by sin.

So will their memory be sweet,

A treasury of bliss

To be borne with us in the days

When we their presence miss.

Trifles connected with the love

Of many a vanished friend

Will thrill the heart and wake the sense,

For memory has no end!

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