My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new,
While from the spindle I the fleeces drew;
The latch mov'd up, when who should first come in,
But, in his proper person,-Lubberkin!

I broke my yarn, surpris'd the sight to see,

Sure sign that he would break his word with me.
Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted sleight;
So may again his love with mine unite!

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80

With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'This lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass.
Fly, lady-bird; north, south, or east, or west,
Fly where the man is found that I love best.
He leaves my hand; see to the west he's flown,
To call my true-love from the faithless town.

85

With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around. 90
'This mellow pippin which I pare around,
My shepherd's name shall flourish on the ground:
I fling the' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L is read;

Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen

Than what the paring marks upon the green.

95

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.

'This pippin shall another trial make;

See from the core two kernels brown I take; 100
This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn,
And Boobyclod on t'other side is borne:

Ver. 93.] Transque caput jace; ne respexeris.

Virg.

105

But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, A certain token that his love's unsound; 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 ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.

'As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree,

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,

And while I knit the knot repeat this strain;
"Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure, 115
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure."

With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'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.
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,
And in love-powder all my money spent:
Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers, 125
When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs,
These golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.

Ver. 109.] Necte tribus nodis ternos, Amarylli, colores : Necte, Amarylli, modo; et Vencris, dic, vincula necto.

Virg.

Ver. 123.] Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena Ipse dedit Mæris.

Ver. 127.]

Ποτον κακόν αυριου οισων

Virg.

Theoc.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the

ground,

130

And turn me thrice around, around, around. 'But hold our Lightfoot barks,and cocks his ears, O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.

He comes! he comes! Hobnelia's not bewray'd, Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid. He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown; Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!'

136

FRIDAY:

OR,

THE DIRGE'.

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.

BUMKINET.

WHY, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem?
There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;

Ver. 131.] Nescio quid certe est: et Hylax in limine latrat. Virg.

1 Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty or song of lamentation over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige, in the Popish hymn, Dirige gressus meos, as some pretend, but from the Teutonic Dyrke, Laudare, to praise and extol whence it is possible their dyrke and our dirge was a laudatory song to commemorate and appland the dead. Cowell's Interpreter.

From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, 5
And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn;
Yet even this season pleasance blithe affords;
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards,
Come, let us hie, and quaff a cherry bowl,
Let cider new wash sorrow from thy soul.

10

GRUB. Ah! Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert

gone,

From these sad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMK. Hang sorrow! let's to yonder hut repair, 15 And with trim sonnets cast away our care. Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play, Thou sing'st most sweet' O'er hills and far away.' Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,

And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. 20 Come, Grubbinol! beneath this shelter, come, From hence we view our flocks securely roam.

GRUB. Yes, blithsome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my woe shall distant vallies ring; The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, For woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead.

BUMK. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee! No happiness is now reserv'd for me.

As the wood pigeon cooes without his mate,
So shall my doleful Dirge bewail her fate:
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,

The peerless maid that did all maids excel.

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed, And evening tears upon the grass be spread;

30

Ver. 15.] Incipe, Mopse, prior; si quosaut Phyllidis ignes, Aut Alconis babes laudes, aut jurgia Codri.

Ver. 27.] Glee, joy; from the Dutch Glooren, to recreate.

The rolling streams with watry grief shall flow, 35
And winds shall moan aloud-when loud they blow.
Henceforth, as oft as autumn shall return,
The dropping trees, whene'er it rains, shall mourn;
This season quite shall strip the country's pride,
For 'twas in autumn Blouzelinda died.

40

45

Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, 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, When rotten sticks our fuel have supplied; There I remember how her faggots large, Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge. Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown, And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown; 5Q Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way, Or wallowing mid a feast of acorns lay, The' untoward creatures to the sty I drove, And whistled all the way-or told my love. If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie, I shall her goodly countenance espy, For there her goodly countenance I've seen, Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean. Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, Or with the wooden lily prints the pound. Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, And press from spungy curds the milky stream. But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more The whining swine surround the dairy door, No more her care shall fill the hollow tray, To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey. Lament, ye swine! in grunting spend your grief, For you, like me, have lost your sole relief.

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