The strong attachment of the villagers of North Devon to their native places, is proverbial and remarkable. When the Poor Law Amendment Act was brought first into operation there, nothing excited so much dread among the aged and infirm, nothing excited so much indignation among the sturdy labourers, as the fear that
the old people would be removed from the homes of their youth, the graves of their fathers, and the dwelling places of their children.
The case alluded to is not imaginary.
The sun light of the winter's eve,
Grew dim upon the moor,
An aged white hair'd poor old man,
Stood by his cottage door ;
''And have I lived with tears he said,
This heavy day to see,
When I must quit this dear old spot.
And home's not home to me.

Many a winter's snows have fallen
Upon this old loved cot ;
Many a summer's sim has shone
Upon my happy lot,
Since liere my mother led uie ibrlh,
To sport M'ith childish glee,
Yet now when old and worn and poor.
My home's not home to me.

From hence a boy my father's team
I learnt to drive a-field,
From him I learnt the woodman's craft;
And learnt the flail to Avield;
When first I won the wrestler's prize,
We langh'd his pride to see—
Ah ! these wei'e fair and happy days—
Then home 7vas home to me.

And when the good old man grew weak
And stricken well in years,
I guided forth his faltering steps,
And wiped away his tears.
We yonder in the house of God,
Together bent the knee,
And there we both together prayed,
Then home was home to me.

And here too 'twas my bonnie boys,
From youth to manhood grew—
Two handsome, brave, and fair hair'd lads
Who fell at Waterloo
The rich man's pride, whicli made the wars
The poor man's misery,
Tore from my heart my fair hair'd boys—
Tims home's not liome to me.

For, had tliey lived to toil for me,
Who fell to save the land,
I should not thus for charity
Hold up my trembling hand.
Their blood smoked on a foreign plain—
I'm like a blasted tree—
No prop sustains my wither'd strength ;
Thus—home's not home to me.*

How shall we tell the poor old soul,
The mother of my boys,
That she must quit her home at last,
And lose her last of joys.—
Her last of joys—to wet with tears
The ground on which they trod ;
She's wedded to a banish'd man.
She has no home—O God !

Oh, God ! that word revives my heart,
For He is good and just—
'Tis He has mingled joys and pains
To try the cliild of dust.
The proud one's might can go thus far,
Here stay'd his power must be ;
Home for the homeless and forlorn,
The grave's a home for me.

And now my brave and generous lads,
With whom till now I've toil'd,
Be peaceful and obey the laws,
Then shall your foes be foil'd.
Forgive an old heart-broken man,
If falling tears you see ;
My heart seems dead within my breast,
Since home's not home to me.'