acknowledging a copy of some of his verses, the Venerable Archdeacon Musgrave, of Halifax, wrote him as follows:- Many thanks for your poetry and the rich treasure it contains."

On one occasion, now nearly thirty years ago, Mr. Oddy visited Chatsworth, and subsequently wrote a descriptive poem entitled "Lines on a Visit to Chatsworth." He forwarded a copy to His Grace the late Duke of Devonshire, and was fortunate enough to receive the following autograph letter in reply:

DEVONSHIRE HOUSE, PICCADILLY, LONDON, W.

SIR, MAY 21ST, 1868. I am much obliged to you for sending me your poetry on Chatsworth. I duly received your letter while I was at Temple Newsome, and in compliance with your wishes I gave one of the copies to Sir Wm. Knollys, Comptroller to the Prince of Wales, and requested him to lay it before His Royal Highness. I remain, yours obediently, DEVONSHIRE.

MR. JOHN ODDY.

Lines on the Last Hawthorn in Whitcliffe

Lane.

IN Whitcliffe lane for fifty years,

I've stood cold winter's bitter blast;
Seen many changes, many tears:

My friends are gone, and I'm the last.
From Bandwalk gate to Maltkiln end,
Protected by an old stone wall;
Our line of hawthorns did extend,

Full six feet broad, and very tall.
The sparrows in our midst have fought,
And rais'd up many a chirping row;
The robin here has shelter sought;

The blackbird and the passing crow.

Each spring-time did our buds invite;
Cover'd our boughs with leaves of green;
Deck'd out our twigs with bloom snow-white;
A finer hedgerow scarce was seen.

The boys oft climbed us for a flower

To grace their coat, or trim their cap:
The girls made wreaths to deck their bower;
Each broke off bloom, or marr'd our sap.

In summer-time we've often lent

Our shade to weary passers-by,

And many a grateful heart has sent

Thanks to our God, who rules on high.

Poor invalids, both young and old,
Have sat beneath us many an hour,
And to the strong their stories told,
Whilst shelt'ring from a passing shower,
At eventide all down the lane,

Our bloom with fragrance fill'd the air;
When wash'd by cooling showers of rain:
Or deck'd with pearly dewdrops fair.
In autumn, too, when nights were long,
And gentle breezes fann'd the air,
The sparrow gave his notes of song;
The bat, the glow-worm, too, were there.
The clocks rang out the hours of time;
The moon gave out her pale dim light :
Fond lovers sat beneath our shrine,

And each to each their vows did plight.
In autumn, too, our haws did form,
As food for birds, in time of snow,
Ripe fruit for winter's bitter storm :
Their wants did their Creator know.
But now the field has all been sold,
And houses built upon the land;
My mates are gone, and I am told
That I have not so long to stand.
No whirr of wheels, no whistling boys,
No workmen to draw out the line;
No shouting "make a less yer noise;"
Hold up!" "be steady!" how you twine.
Then farewell! Wrathmell, Rhodes and you,
The lads, the wheels, and Sambo too;
Farewell! to scenes of youth so true,
To all, I now must bid adieu !

AND now with a portion of this my old block,
In conclusion I write a few lines from my stock;
With pleasure I've written the subject in hand,
About the old block, where my anvil did stand.

From facts I have told you the place where it stood,
'Twas opposite Fulneck down in the north wood;
But like finite man, its beauty was doom'd,

To the axe of the woodman who now lays entom'b.
Four horses to teagle, by six horses drawn,
This once lordling oak from the forest was torn ;
For millwrights who of it an axletree made,
For a huge water-wheel, to drive on the cloth trade
In Cockersdale Valley. On boulders it ran,
On boulders for brasses and that was the plan,

And for many long years by water 'twas turned,

Till the mill went to rack, and this wheel was then spurn'd.
Many rounds it had turn'd, without thoughts or fears,
Midst the trials and changes of many long years.

But man in his changes and chances of life,
Is many times turned by affection or strife.
Of the axle a part, in time, fell to me,

A block I made of it, till my course I could see.
Two years I work'd o'er it, and good lessons learn'd
Of practical life, whilst my horse shoes I turn'd;
As a relic I priz'd it, 'twas good British oak,
The heart that was left, was still firm as a rock;

But been mortis'd and weather'd, hammer'd and burn'd,
My shop too removed, and a new block I'd earn'd;
Its place was supplied by a new one in stock,
As its firmness was gone, for a good anvil block.
But as monuments rais'd o'er heroes of worth,
And men who have honour'd the land of their birth;
Even I have thought fit of this old block to make,
Some token of love and respect for its sake;
Some hafts and gag handles, I've made for my
trade,
A bloodstick, etc., they'll save life if they're made.
For the first four officers, I've made from the block,
A penholder each, for a pen and its sock;

Those holders I've giv'n, one may yet hold a pen,
To display forth the worth of the Westgate Hill men,
In whose company I've mix'd for the last seven years,
And am come once again to bid them what cheers.
May they still persevere with the work they've in hand,
To train up the young in their own native land;
May they firmly as ever all pull at one string,
And their mental society a rich harvest bring.
May I, too, still work hard, be firm as a rock,
And for ever remember my old anvil block.

On Music.

IN music, one joy of my life and my heart,
How oft I have long'd to take my own part
From my earliest youth and even till now,
Its charms I have lov'd and striven to know.
In minor and major, its wonderful themes,
Have taken my thoughts out to both extremes.
The former how touching, so mournful and sad,
Portrays our best thoughts, in rich music clad;
The latter more cheering, and lively, and gay,
For chorus or song on a bright May-day.

How often has poetry, strengthened by song,
Made words still more joyous, when sung by the strong.
How often my thoughts have been melted in tears
By songs I've heard sung in bygone years.
How oft have my hairs been set on an end,

When the full flowing chorus to heaven did ascend.
And now for a period of full fifty years,

Its charms I've enjoyed amid hopes and fears.
'Tis all we can take with us, out of the world
May we still cling to it, with our banners unfurl'd.

fines on Love.

OH! what is Love, that glows so in the heart ?
That God-like tie, that will not let minds part-
That secret principle, so charming from within—-
That mystery to man, in life so woven in ?
The spell of life which buoys up all our hopes,
And bears us up in joy, or disappointment's strokes.
At birth, the infant doth this tie receive,

And love reciprocates ere it begins to live.

We well may ask, how does it spring, and whence-
That infant smile of heavenly innocence?
'Tis Love, that bursts so freely from the heart,
The seat and source of which we only know in part.
To parents, labouring on and scarcely knowing why,
Their youthful flock to rear, all seems infinity;
But yet a tie is there, which none can move-
A father's centre'd hopes, a mother's love.
Would God that all their future life could be,
One hallow'd course of joy, and true simplicity.

Our Town Hall Glock and Chimes.

A GOOD, Sound bell in key of D

In bells a fre'er note than C-
Full thirty hundredweight 'twould be:
Just like the Mirfield tenor.

For Cambridge chimes you would want four:
A, B, C sharp, and Upper E
They sound much nicer in a tower,

But price would run accordingly.

A good, strong clock-why not say two?-
To ring the chimes and turn the hands;
Give number one the hours when due,

Or both in combination stand.

THE OLD BRITISH SCHOOL, CLECKHEATON, WHICH STOOD ON THE
SITE OF THE PRESENT TOWN HALL.

A downward blow I'd give each bell,
As better than the under-jerk;
A spring would help the tone to swell-
Require less power to do the work.

The dial shafts black ebony,
Expansion and corrosion nil:

The lightning might not pass, you see,
And us with disappointment fill.