Preface.
In the year 1846, I had the temerity to publish a small—yea, a {sc|very}} small—collection of Poems, Songs, Scraps, &c., then, as now, under the title of "Ned Farmer's Scrap Book;" all of which, as the immortal Sairey Gamp would say, "is well beknown." The very kind manner in which the diminutive tome alluded to, was received by my friends, and the amiable forbearance evinced by the few reviewers who condescended to notice it, have mainly actuated me in thus daring again to meet the public gaze. Further than this, it may just be, as is often the case, the few have brought the infliction on the many; for, travelling as I do very much, I have often been asked, whether in jest or earnest the inquirers best know, where my Scrap Book could be obtained; and being induced to look over "the nooks and comers of old England"—meaning my boxes, drawers, writing-desk, &c.—I discovered among many other queer crudities of the brain, the varied contents of the little work now offered, with the most profound respect, for general perusal; the chameleon-like nature of which will go to prove under what varied moods and feelings they have had their birth.
For I am one who only writes,
Just when the "mental maggot" bites.
But, argues Common Sense, admitting all this to be true, why not be content, as scores of far better writers have
