And guided to the parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,
Through clean clipt rows of box and myrtle.
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlour steps collected,
Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say,
"Our master knows you; you're expected."

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
Uprose the doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasp'd his pond'rous Barrow:
What'er the stranger's cast or creed,
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reach'd his journey's end,
And warm'd himself in court or college,
He had not gain'd an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;--
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,--
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs