Dec'r 15th fine dry day - John finished sowing of wheat on his field. Master
Brown better the Dandy visited Mrs Kirk
16th fine dry day - continued to plough the bigfield John in Newry and brought out my insurence paper

17th another dry day - 30 killed a pig - spred lime on the bray - Douglass, Mary,
John &c at Archys
18th a wet morning & day, dry at nightfall John Bradford here at night - got word
of Mr Ralph Vaughans death Dr Woods died - Mrs J Rogers died
19th a dry, gray day - spred lime on the bray, & soil on the bigfield, J Robenson
ploughed on it - Jo cut up the pig & salted it
20th dark morning, & day - Mr White drove me on Hellen to Mrs James Rogers
funral home again by cash from James Malcomson for Rent 17/6 to Nov last
21st the Sabbath - collection for the foreign mission 5 0 0
22nd wet cold morning, it cleers up men thrashing wheat - deer at night James
Martin flitted to my sisters house - male made -
23rd frost - bright sunny day - ploughed on underthe race - Hugh arrived from
college
24th Dry cold day - ploughin continued - spent the evening with Hugh at Marys

The Ruined Bower
I do not wish to view the place
Of this lone-ruined bower;
I do not wish just here to trace,
Decays effacing power;
For here I've seen the merriest throngs,
And the gayest footsteps rove,
And here I've heard the sweetest songs -
And a young heart learned to love:
And here we've wakened the echoes up,
With our ringing laughter high;
And here I've quaffed the sparkling cup,
In the light of a sparkling eye.
Twas there the lily loved to spring,
Where weeds are waving now,
And the evening thrush would proudly sing
From yon once budding bough:
And here the violets sunned their eyes,
The moss-rose muffled hung:
And where yon withering fir-tree lies,
Laburnum blossoms swung:
'Twas here the honeysuckle twined
Its wreaths around the door:
And there the lovely bluebells line
The lakelet's silver shore.
And here is where I loved to sit,
In summers days gone by;
And dream of thoughts that never flit
And hopes that never die.
And here I used to watch the sun
Sink o'er yon hills of blue,
While the dancing waves a glory won
From the living light he threw;
And here I've watched the wild fowl fly,
When day was growing dim;
And listened to the lullaby
Of the drowsy beetles hymn:
And when the evening shaddows fell,
I loved to walk that strand,
And view the lone swan sentinal,
His silent silver land.
Oh, yes, I loved it long ago,
In youth's exulting dawn!
But I do not wish to view it now
When all its light is gone.
It tells ofjoys long past and fled
Such joys as ne'er return;
It tells of hopes now coldly dead,
And buried in youths urn;
It tells of eyes that sweetly smiled;
And eyes that loved to view them;
It tells of hearts that hearts bequiled,
In panting passion to them;
The memory of those eyes it saves,
That watched our infant years;
And it minds us of the new made graves,
We watered with our tears;
It tells us of the noble mind,
That often shone within it;
But bears for loving well his kind
A felons fate this minute!*
And it minds us while that fate remains,
There's not a sun that rolls,
But ripens more, and deeper stains,
The vengeance of our souls!
It tells of days of days of seeking dreams;
Of loves of sparkling pleasure;
Of youthful scenes, of rapture gleams,
The memory still will treasure.
But some are cold that once were gay;
And some have crossed times river
And some are wandering far away,
But all are gone forever
The moss has withered from its place;
The grass grows on the floor;
The tangled path scarce shows a trace;
And the weeds wave in the door:
The rose no more erects its head;
The gress oe'rtops the flower;
The light is gone, the spirit fled,
From that once lovely bower.
W. K. H.
*John Martin