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Cicely, the western lass, that tends the kee,

" Have I not sat with thee full many a night, The rival of the parson's maid was she.

When dying embers were our only light, In dreary shade now Marian lies along,

When every creature did in slumbers lie, And, mixt with sighs, thus wails in plaining song : Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I?

90 “Ah, woful day! ah, woful noon and morn! No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move, When first by thee my younglings white were shorn; While I alone am kept awake by love. Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,

“Remember, Colin! when at last year's wake My sheep were silly, but more silly I.

I bought the costly present for thy sake; Bencath the shears they felt no lasting smart, Couldst thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife, They lost but fleeces, while I lost a heart. 30 And with another change thy state of life? “Ah, Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart If thou forgett'st, I wol, I can repeat, true ?

My memory can tell the verse so sweet: What I have done for thee, will Cicely do ? • As this is gravid upon this knise of thine, Will she thy linen wash, or hosen darn,

So is thy image on this heart of mine.'

100 And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yam? But woe is me! such presents luckless prove, Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat ? For knives, they tell me, always sever love." And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait, Thus Marian wailid, her eyes with tears brimful, Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide, When Goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull. In service-time drew Cicely's eyes aside ? With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,

" Where'er I gad, I cannot hide my care, Then saw the cow wellserv'd, and took a groat. My new disasters in my look appear.

White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features, that I'm hardly known.
Our neighbors tell me oft, in joking talk,

Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.

Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain. The wailings of a maiden I recite,

" Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.
To moil all day, and merry-make at night. 50 Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
If in the soil you guide the crooked share, Nor the gay goldfinch chants so sweet a nole.
Your early breakfast is my constant care ; No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
And when with even hand you strow the grain, No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray ;
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain. No rustling breezes play'd the leaves among,
In misling days, when I my thresher heard, While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd ;

A while, O D'Urfey! lend an ear or twain, Lost in the music of the whirling flail,

Nor, tho' in homely guise, my verse disdain ; 10 To gaze on thee I left the smoking pail :

Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the Sun, In harvest, when the Sun was mounted high, Whether thy Muse does at Newmarket run, My leathern botile did thy draught supply ; 60 Or does with gossips at a feast regale, Whene'er you mow'd, I follow'd with the rake,

And heighten her conceits with sack and ale, And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake: Or else at wakes with Joan and Hodge rejoice, When in the welkin gathering showers were seen, Where D'Urfey's lyrics swell in every voice ; I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green; And when at eve returning with thy car, Awaiting heard the jingling bells from far, Straight on the fire the sooty pot I plac'd,

* Dumps, or dumbs, made usc of to express a fit of the To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for haste. sullens. Some have pretended that it is derived from When hungry thou stood 'st slaring, like an oaf,

Dumops, a king of Egypt, that built a pyrainid, and died I slic'd the luncheon from the barley-loaf;

70 of melancholy. So mopes, after the same manner, is

thought to have come from Merops, another Egyptian With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.

king, that died of the same distemper. But our English Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less !

antiquaries have conjectured that dumps, which is a “ Last Friday's eve, when as the Sun was set,

grievous heaviness of spirits, comes from the word dumpI, near yon stile, three sallow gypsies met.

ling, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this Upon my hand they cast a poring look,

country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook : England. They said, that many crosses I must prove;

Ver. 5. Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.

Immemor herbarum quos est mirata juvenca Next morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock;

Certantes, quorum stupefactæ carmine lynces, And off the hedge two pinners and a smock; 80

Et mutata suos requierunt flumina cursus. I bore these losses with a Christian mind,

Virg. And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.

Ver. 9.
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.

Tu mihi, seu magni superas jam saxa Timavi,
Sive oram Illyrici legis æquoris-

Help me, ye gypsies ; bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.

Ver. 11. An opera written by this author, called The World in the Sun, or the Kingdom of Birds; he is also

famous for his song on the Newmarket horse-race, and Ver. 21. Kee, a west-country word for kine, or cows.

several others that are sung by the British swains.


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Yet suffer me, thou bard of wond'rous meed, “Sooner shall cats disport in waters clear,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.

And speckled mack'rel graze the meadows fair;
Now the Sun drove adown the western road, Sooner shall screech-owls bask in sunny day,
And oxen, laid at rest, forgot the goad, 20 And the slow ass on trees, like squirrels, play; 70
The clown, faligud, trudg'd homeward with his Sooner shall snails on insect pinions rove;

Than I forget my shepherd's wonted love.
Across the meadows stretch'd the lengthen'd shade; “My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
When Sparabella, pensive and forlorn,

• 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.' Alike with yearning love and labor worn,

" Ah! didst thou know what proffers I withstood, Lean'd on her rake, and straight with doleful guise When late I met the squire in yonder wood ! Did this sad plaint in mournful notes devise : To me he sped, regardless of his game,

"Come Night, as dark as pitch, surround my head, While all my cheek was glowing red with shame; From Sparabella Bumkinet is fed ;

My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healıhsul look,
The ribbon that his valorous cudgel won,

Then from his purse of silk a guinea took, 80
Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on. 30 Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
Sure if he'd eyes (but Love, they say, has none) While I with modest struggling broke his hold.
I whilom by that ribbon had been known. He swore that Dick, in livery strip'd with lace,
Ah, well-a-day! I'm shent with baneful smart, Should wed me soon, to keep me from disgrace ;
For with the ribbon he bestow'd his heart. But I nor footman priz'd, nor golden fee;

"My plaint, ye lasses, with this burihen aid, For what is lace or gold, compard to thee?
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'

"My plaint, ye lasses, with this burihen aid,
“ Shall heavy Clumsilis with me coinpare ? • 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
View this, ye lovers, and like me despair.

“ Now plain I ken whence Love his rise begun
Her blubber'd lip by smutty pipes is worn, Sure he was born some bloody butcher's son, 90
And in her breath tobacco whiffs are borne ! 40 Bred up in shambles, where our younglings slain
The cleanly cheese-press she could never turn, Erst taught him mischief, and to sport with pain.
Her awkward fist did ne'er employ the churn; The father only silly sheep annoys,
If e'er she brew'd, the drink would straight go sour, The son the sillier shepherdess destroys.
Before it ever felt the thunder's power;

Does son or father greater mischief do?
No huswifery the dowdy creature knew; The sire is cruel, so the son is too.
To sum up all, her tongue confessd the shrew. “ My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid, 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.' 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'

Farewell, ye woods, ye meads, ye streams tha "I've often seen my visage in yon lake,

Nor are my features of the homeliest make : 50 A sudden death shall rid me of my woe. 10C
Though Clumsilis may boast a whiter dye, This penknife keen my windpipe shall divide.
Yet the black sloe turns in my rolling eye; What! shall I fall as squeaking pigs have died ?
And fairest blossoms drop with every blast, No-To some tree this carcass I'll suspend.
But the brown beauty will like hollies last. But worrying curs find such untimely end !
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek, I'll speed me to the pond, where the high stool
While Katharine pears adorn my ruddy cheek. On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool;
Yet she, alas! the witless lout hath won, That stool, the dread of every scolding quean;
And by her gain poor Sparabell's undone !

Yet, sure a lover should not die so mean!
Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite, There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
The clucking hen make friendship with the kite; Though all the parish say I've lost my wits; 110
Let the fox simply wear the nuptial noose, 61 And thence, if courage holds, myself I'll throw,
And join in wedlock with the waddling goose ; And quench my passion in the lake below.
For love hath brought a stranger thing to pass, “Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
The fairest shepherd weds the foulest lass. And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own."

· My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid, • 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'

Ver. 67. Ver. 17. Meed, an old word for fame, or renown.

Ante leves ergo pascentur in æthere cervi, Ver. 18. -Hanc sine tempora circum

Et freta destituent nudos in littore pisces-
Inter victrices hederam tibi serpere lauros.

Quàm nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.

Ver. 25.

Ver. 89. To ken. Scire. Chaucer, to kon, and kende; Incumbens tereti Damon sic cæpit olivæ.


notus A. S. cunnam. Goth. kunnam. Germanis kennen. Ver. 33. Shenl, an old word, signifying hurt, or harmed. Danis kiende. Iblandis kunna. Belgis kennen. This word Ver. 37.

is of general use, but not very common, though not un.

known to the vulgar. Kon, for prospicere, is well known, Mopso Nisa datur, quid non speremus amantes ?


and used to discover by the eye. Ray, F. R. S. Ver. 49.

Nunc scio quid sit amor, &c. Nec sum adeo informis, nuper me in littore vidi.


Crudelis mater magis an puer improbus ille ? Ver. 53.

Inprobus ille puer, crudelis tu quoque mater.

Virg. Alba ligustra cadunt, vaccinis nigra leguntur.

Virg. Ver. 59.

Ver. 99. Jungentur jam gryphes equis; ævoque sequenti

-vivite sylvæ : Cum canibus limidi venient ad pocula dama.

Præceps aërii speculá de montis in undas


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The Sun was set; the night came on apace, • With my sharp heel I three times mark the And falling dews bewet around the place;

ground, The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And turn me thrice around, around, around.' And the hoarse owl his woful dirges sings;

* Last May-day fair 1 search'd to find a snail, The prudent maiden deems it now too late,

That might my secret lover's name reveal.

50 And, till to-morrow comes, defers her fate.

120 Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,

(For always snails near sweetest fruit abound).

I seiz'd the vermin, whom I quickly sped,
THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL And on the earth the milk-white embers spread.

Slow crawl'd the snail; and, if I right can spell,

In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L.

Oh, may this wondrous omen lucky prove! HOBNELIA, seated in a dreary vale,

For L is found in Lubberkin and Love. In pensive mood rehears'd her piteous tale ;

• With my sharp heel I three times mark the Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,

ground, And pining echo answers groan for groan.

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' “I rue the day, a rueful day, I trow, The woful day, a day indeed of woe!

“ Two hazel-nuts I threw into the flame, When Lubberkin to town his catile drove,

And to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name; A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love ;

This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz'd, The maiden fine bedight his love retains,

That in a flame of brightest color blaz'd. And for the village he forsakes the plains.

10 As blaz’d the nut, so may thy passion grow; Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear; For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow. Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. • With my sharp heel I three times mark the • With my sharp heel I three times mark the


68 And turn me thrice around, around, around.' ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

“ As peascods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to see “When first the year I heard the cuckoo sing,

One that was closely fill’d with three times three: And call with welcome note the budding spring,

Which, when I cropp'd, I safely home convey'd,

And o'er the door the spell in secret laid ;
I straightway set a running with such haste,
Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast;

My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new,
Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown,

While from the spindle I the fleeces drew;

The latch mov'd up, when, who should first come in,

20 Upon a rising bank I sat adown, Then doff'd my shoe, and, by my troth, I swear,

But, in his proper person-Lubberkin. Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair,

I broke my yarn, surpris'd the sight to see; As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,

Sure sign that he would break his word with me.

Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted sleight: As if upon his comely pate it grew.

So may again his love with mine unite! 80 · With my sharp heel I three times mark the

• With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' “ At eve last Midsummer no sleep I sought, “ This lady-fly I take from off the grass, But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought; Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass: I scatter'd round the seed on every side,

• Fly, lady-bird, North, South, or East, or West, And three times in a trembling accent cried, 30 Fly' where the man is found that I love best. • This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,

He leaves my hand ; see, to the West he's flown, Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow.'

To call my true-love from the faithless town.
I straight look'd back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youih.

• With my sharp heel I three times mark the

ground, • With my sharp heel I three times mark the And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 90 ground,

“I pare this pippin round and round again, And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain,
“ Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find; Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
I early rose, just at the break of day,

Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen
Before the Sun had chas'd the stars away ;

40 Than what the paring makes upon the green. A-field I went, amid the morning dew,

• With my sharp heel I three times mark the To milk my kine (for so should huswives do);

Thee first I spied ; and the first swain we see, And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
In spite of Fortune, shall our true-love be.
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take;
And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake?

Ver. 64. εγώ δ' επί Λέλφιδι δάφναν
Αίθω. χ'ώς αυτά λακέει, μέγα καππυρίσασα.


Ver. 66. Ver. 8. Dight, or bedight, from the Saxon word dighlan, Daphnis me malus urit, ego hanc in Daphnide. which signifies to set in order.

Virg. Ver. 21. Doff and don, contracted from the words do off Ver. 93. Transque caput jace; ne respexeris. and do on

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“ This pippin shall another trial make,

From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, See from the core two kernels brown I take; 100 And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn. This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn;

Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords, And Boobyclod on t’ other side is borne.

Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards. But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl, À certain token that his love's unsound;

Let cider new “wash sorrow from thy soul." 10 While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last ; Oh, were his lips to mine but join'd so fast ! With my sharp heel I three times mark the

Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, ground,

From these sad plains all merriment is flown; And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer, “As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear. I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee. 110 He wist not when the hempen string I drew, Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue. Together fast I tie the garters twain ;

Hang sorrow!" Let's to yonder hut repair, And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: And with trim sonnets "cast away our care." • Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure, “ Gillian of Croydon” well thy pipe can play: Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure! Thou sing'st most sweet, “O'er hills and far away." With my sharp heel I three times mark the Of Patient Grissel" I devise to sing, ground,

And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring. 20 And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come ;

From hence we view our flocks securely roam. “ As I was wont, I trudg'd last market-day To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay, 120

I made my market long before 'twas night,
My purse grew heavy, and my basket light.

Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,

But with my woe shall distant valleys ring. And in love-powder all my money spent.

The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers,

For, wo is me our Blouzelind is dead !
When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs,
These golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.

Is Blouzelinda dead ? farewell, my glee! "With my sharp heel I three times mark the No happiness is now reserv'd for me. ground,

As the wood-pigeon cooes without his mate, And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 130 So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate. 30 “But hold our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his or Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,

The peerless maid that did all maids excel. O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
He comes! he comes! Hobnelia's not bewray'd, And evening tears upon the grass be spread;
Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid. The rolling streams with watery grief shall now,
He vows, he swears, he 'll give me a green gown: And winds shall moan aloud—when loud they blow.
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!"

Henceforth, as oft as Autumn shall return,
The drooping trees, whene'er it rains, shall mourn;

The season quite shall strip the country's pride,
For 'twas in Autumn Blouzelinda died.

40 Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, Bumkinet, Grubbinol.

Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our passion knew,
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,
Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,
Way, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem ?

When rotten sticks our fuel have supplied ; There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.

There I remember how her fagots large
'Tis true yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;

Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel-boughs adown,
And stuff d her apron wide with nuts so brown; 50

Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way, Ver. 109.

Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;
Necte tribus nodis ternos, Amarylli, colores:
Necte, Amarylli, modo; et Veneris dic vincula necto.

Ver. 123.

dirige in the popish hymn, dirige gressus meus, as some Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena

pretend; but from the Teutonic dyrke, laudare, to praise

Virg. Ipse dedit Mæris.

and extol. Whence it is possible their dyrke, and our

dirge, was a laudatory song to commemorate and applaud Ver. 127.-Ποτών κακόν αύριον οισώ. Theoc.

the dead.

Cowell's Interpreter. Ver. 131.

Ver. 15.
Nescio quid certe est ; et Hylax in limine latrat.

Incipe, Mopse, prior, si quos aut Phyllidis ignes

Virg. * Dirge, or dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamenta. Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri. tion, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Ver. 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch glooren, to recreata



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Past. V.

Th' untoward creatures to the sty I drove, The boding raven on her cottage sate,
And whistled all the way—or told my love. And with hoarse croaking warnd us of her fate ;

If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie, The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
I shall her goodly countenance espy ;

Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead; For there her goodly countenance I've seen, Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spied, Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean; Which erst I saw when Goody Dobson died. Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, How shall I, void of tears, her death relate, Or with the wooden lily prints the pound. 60 When on her darling's bed her mother sate! 110 Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke, And press from spungy curds the milky stream:

And of the dead let none the will revoke : But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more “ Mother," quoth she, “ let not the poultry need. The whining swine surround the dairy door; And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed : No more her care shall fill the hollow tray, Be these my sister's care—and every morn To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey. Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn; Lament, ye swine, in grunting spend your grief, The sickly calf that's hous'd be sure to tend, For you, like me, have lost your sole relief. Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply, Yet ere I die-see, mother, yonder shelf, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf. 120 The poultry there will seem around to stand, Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid ; Waiting upon her charitable hand.

Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid. No succor meet the poultry now can find, The rest is yours—my spinning-wheel and rake For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind. Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake; Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,

My new straw hat, that's trimly lin'd with green, Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.

Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean. I pitch'd the sheaves, (oh, could I do so now!) My leathern bottle, long in harvests tried, Which she in rows pild on the growing mow.

Be Grubbinol's—this silver ring beside : There every deale my heart by love was gain'd, Three silver pennies, and a nine-pence bent,

130 There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd. 80 A token kind to Bumkinet is sent.” Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see, Thus spoke the maiden, while the mother cried ; But thy memorial will revive in me.

And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she died. Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show; To show their love, the neighbors far and near Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;

Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier. Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear, Sprig'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear; While dismally the parson walk'd before. For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread ; Upon her grave the rosemary they threw, For Blouzeliada, blithesome maid, is dead!

The daisy, butter-flower, and endive blue. Lament, ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan, After the good man warn'd us from his text, 139 And spell ye right this verse upon her stone: 90 That none could tell whose turn would be the next; “ Here Blouzelinda lies—Alas, alas !

He said, that Heaven would take her soul, no Weep, shepherds—and remember flesh is grass."

doubt, And spoke the hour-glass in her praise-quite out.

To her sweet memory, flowery garlands strung, GRUBBINOL.

O'er her now empty seal aloft were hung.

With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around, Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,

To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground; Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear;

Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze, Or winter porridge to the laboring youth,

For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze. Or buns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;

Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm, Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay,

To drink new cider mull’d with ginger warm. 150 Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

For Gaffer Treadwell told us, by the by,
When Blouzelind expir’d, the wether's bell

“Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry." Before the drooping flock tollid forth her knell ; 100

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she died, Or lasses with soft strokings milk the cow;
And shrilling crickets in the chimney cried !

While paddling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or battening hogs roll in the sinking mire;

While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise;
Ver. 84.

So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise. Pro molli violâ, pro purpureo narcisso,

Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain, Carduus et spinis surgit paliurus acutis.

Till bonny Susan sped across the plain.

160 Virg. They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd, Ver. 90.

And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid ; Et tumulum tacite, et tumulo superaddite carmen. In ale and kisses they forget their cares,

Virg. And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.
Ver. 93.
Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta,
Quale sopor fessis in gramine; quale per aestum
Dulcis aquæ saliente sitim restinguere rivo.

Ver. 153.
Nos tamen hæc quocunque modo tibi nostra vicissim, Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,
Dicemus, Daphuinque tuum tollemus ad astra.

Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadæ, Virg.

Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesqué manebunt. Ver. 96. An imitation of Theocritus.


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