תמונות בעמוד

My boxen hautboy, sweet of sound,
For lace that edg'd mine hat around;
For Lightfoot, and my scrip, I got
A gorgeous sword, and eke a knot.
So forth I far'd to court with speed,
Of soldier's drum withouten drced;
For peace allays the shepherd's fear
Of wearing cap of grenadier.
There saw I ladies all a-row,
Before their queen in seemly show.
No more I'll sing Buxoma brown,
Like Goldfinch in her Sunday gown;
Nor Clumsilis, nor Marian bright,
Nor damsel that Hobnelia hight.
But Lansdowne, fresh as flower of May,
And Berkeley, lady blithe and gay;
And Anglesea, whose speech exceeds
The voice of pipe, or oaten reeds;
And blooming Hyde, with eyes so rare;
And Montague beyond compare :
Such ladies fair would I depaint,
In roundelay or sonnet quaint.

There many a worthy wight I've seen, In ribbon blue and ribbon green : As Oxford, who a wand doth bear, Like Moses, in our Bibles fair; Who for our traffic forms designs, And gives to Britain Indian mines. Now, shepherds, clip your fleecy care; Ye maids, your spinning-wheels prepare; Ye weavers, all your shuttles throw, And bid broad-cloths and serges grow ; For trading free shall thrive again, Nor leasings lewd affright the swain,

There saw I St. John, sweet of mien, Full stedfast both to church and queen; With whose fair name I'll deck my strain; St. John, right courteous to the swain.

For thus he told me on a day, “Trim are thy sonnets, gentle Gay; And, certes, mirth it were to see Thy joyous madrigals twice three, With preface meet, and notes profound, Imprinted fair, and well ye-bound.” All suddenly then home I sped, And did ev'n as my lord had said.

Lo, here thou hast mine eclogues fair, But let not these detain thine ear. Let not th'affairs of states and kings Wait, while our Bouzybeus sings. Rather than verse of simple swain Should stay the trade of France or Spain; Or, for the plaint of parson's maid, Yon emperor's packets be delay'd; In sooth, I swear by holy Paul, Pll burn book, preface, notes, and all.


lobbin clout, cuddy, cloddipole.

lobbin clouT.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake, No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake,

No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er youder hill does scant the dawn appear t
Then why does Cuddy leave his cot so rear 2


Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest, For he that leaves, a stranger is to rest: If swains belye mot, thou hast prov'd the smart, And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart. 10. This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind, Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind. And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree: Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

lobbin clour, Ah, Blouzelind! I love thee more by half, Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf; Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.

culody. Hold, withess Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise. Lo, yonder, Cloddipole, the blithsome swain, The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise. He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,

ensue : He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. , , When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. 30 Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me!

lobbin clout. See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer. This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddest hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch" Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch. 48

Lobbin clouT. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass, Than primrose sweetcr, or the clover-grass. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisie that beside her grows;

Ver. 3. Welkin, the same as welken, an old Saxon word, signifying a cloud; by poetical licence it is frequently taken for the element, or sky, as may appear by this verse in the Dream of Chaucer—

Ne in all the welkin was no cloud.

—Sheen, or shine, an old word for shining, or bright.

Ver. 5. Scant, used in the ancient British authors for scarce.

Ver. 6. Rear, an expression in several counties of England, for early in the morning.

Ver, 7. To ween, derived from the Saxon, to think, or conceive.

Ver. 25. Erst, a contraction of ere this; it

signifies sometime ago, or formerly.

When stuck aloft, that showers would straight

Fair is the gillifiower, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair,
Than daisie, marygold, or king-cup rare.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd. 50
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The withess lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

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Ver. 56. Deft, an old word, signifying brisk, or nimble. Ver. 69. Eftsoons, from eft, an ancient British word, signifying soon. So that eftsoons is a doubling of the word soon : which is, as it were, to say twice soon, or very soon. Ver. 79. 2weint has various significations in the ancient English authors. I have used it in this place in the same sense as Chaucer hath done in his Miller's Tale. “As clerkes being full subtle and queint,” (by which he means arch, or waggish); and not in that obscene sense wherein he useth it in the line immediately following. Ver. 85. Populus Alcidae gratissima, vitis Iaccho, Formosa myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo, Phillis amat corylos. Illas dum Phillis amabit, Nec myrtus vincet corylos mec laurea Phoebi. &c.

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While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise, Nor leaks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize.

cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife, The capon fat delights his dainty wife, o Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare, But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare. While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

lobbin clout. As once I play’d at blindman's buff, it hapt About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt. I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind. True speaks that ancient proverb, “Love is blind.”

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When in the ring the rustic routs he threw,
The damsels' pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger smites the breast of every maid,
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain,
The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain;
Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or lessen with her sieve the barley-mow ;
Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she press'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd ;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter, nor sage-cheese, prepares,
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And “Love” say swains, “all busy heed destroys.”
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart;
A lass that Cicely hight had won his heart,
Cicely, the western lass, that tends the kee,
The rival of the parson's maid was she.
In dreary shade now Marian lies along,
And, mixt with sighs, thus wails in plaining song:
“Ah, woeful day! ah, woeful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were
Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye, [shorn;
"My sheep were silly, but more silly I.
Beneath the shears they felt no lasting smart,
They lost but fleeces, while I lost a heart. 30
“Ah, Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart
true? -
What I have done for thee, will Cicely do?
Will she thy linen wash, or hosen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn ?
Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat 2
And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait,
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service-time drew Cicely's eyes aside 2
“Where’er I gad, I cannot hide my care,
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 neighbours 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.
“Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night. 50
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfast is my constant care;
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain.
In misling days, when I my thresher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repaird;
Lost in the music of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the smoking pail: *
In harvest, when the Sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy draught supply;
Whene'er you mow’d, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake:
When in the well-in gathering showers were seen,
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,
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for haste.
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I slic'd the luncheon from the barley-loaf; 70



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Ver. 21. Kee, a west-country word for kine, or ooirs.

With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less!
“Last Friday's eve, when as the Sun was set,
I, near yon stile, three sallow gypsies met.
Upon my hand they cast a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook:
They said, that many crosses I must prove;
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.
Next morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock; 80
I bore these losses with a Christian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,
I’ve known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypsies; bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.
“Have I not sat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When every creature did in slumbers lie,
Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move,
While I alone am kept awake by love.
“Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake
I bought the costly present for thy sake; o
Could'st thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife,
And with another change thy state of life?
If thou forgett'st, I wot, I can repeat,
My memory can tell the verse so sweet:
“As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
So is thy image on this heart of mine.”
But woe is me! such presents luckless prove,
For knives, they tell me, always sever love.”
Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimful,
When Goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,
Then saw the cow well serv'd, and took a groat.

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sparabel L.A.

The wailings of a maiden I recite, A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight. Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat, Nor the gay goldfinch chants so sweet a note. No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay, No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray; No rustling breezes play'd the leaves among, While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.

* Dumps, or dumbs, made use of to express a fit of the sullens Some have pretended that it is derived from Dumops, a king of Egypt, that built a pyramid, and died of melancholy. So mopes, after the same manner, is thought to have come from Merops, another Fgyptian king, that died of the same distemper. But our English antiquaries have conjectured that dumps, which is a grievous heaviness of spirits, comes from the word dumplin, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of England. Ver. 5. Immemor herbarum quos est mirata juvenca Certantes, quorum stupefactae carmine lynces, Et mutata suds requierunt flumina cursus. Virg. A while, 6 D'Urfey' lend an ear or twain, - Nor, tho' in homely guise, my verse disdain; Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the Sun, Whether thy Muse does at Newmarket run, Or does with gossips at a feast regale, And heighten her conceits with sack and ale, Or else at wakes with Joan and Hodge rejoice, Where D'Urfey's lyrics swell in every voice; Yet suffer me, thou bard of wondrous meed, Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed. Now the Sun drove adown the western road, And oxen, laid at rest, forgot the goad, 20 The clown, fatigued, trudg’d homeward with his spade, Across the meadows stretch'd the lengthen'd shade; When Sparabella, pensive and forlorn, Alike with yearning love and labour worn, Lean'd on her rake, and straight with doleful guise JDid this sad plaint in mournful notes devise: “Come Night as dark as pitch, surround my head, From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled; The ribbon that his valorous cudgel won, Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on. Sure if he'd eyes, (but Love, they say, has none) I whilom by that ribbon had been known. Ah, well-a-day ! I’m shent with baneful smart, For with the ribbon he bestow'd his heart. “My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid, * "Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.” “Shall heavy Clumsilis with me compare 2 View this, ye lovers, and like me despair. Her blubber'd lip by smutty pipes is worn, And in her breath tobacco whiffs are borne! The cleanly cheese-press she could never turn, Her awkward fist did ne'er employ the churn; If e'er she brew'd, the drink would straight go sour, Before it ever felt the thunder's power; No huswifery the dowdy creature knew ; To sum up all, her tongue confess'd the shrew. “My plaint, yel , with this burthen aid, * "Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.” “I’ve often seen my visage in yon lake, Nor are my features of the homeliest make: Though Clumsilis may boast a whiter dye, Yet the black sloe turns in my rolling eye; And fairest blossoms drop with every blast, But the brown beauty will like hollies last.



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Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Katharine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet she, alas ! the withess lout hath won,
And by her gain poor Sparabell's undone!
Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite,
The clucking hen make friendship with the kite;
Let the fox simply wear the nuptial moose, 61
And join in wedlock with the waddling goose;
For love hath brought a stranger thing to pass,
The fairest shepherd weds the foulest lass.
“My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
‘'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.”
“Sooner shall cats disport in waters clear,
And speckled mackrel graze the meadows fair;
Sooner shall screech-owls bask in sunny day,
And the slow ass on trees, like squirrels, play; 70
Sooner shall snails on insect pinions rove;
Than I forget my shepherd's wonted love.
“My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
‘'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.”
“Ah! didst thou know what proffers I withstood,
When late I met the squire in yonder wood |
To me he sped, regardless of his game,
While all my cheek was glowing red with shame;
My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful look,
Then from his purse of silk a guinea took,
Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
While I with modest struggling broke his hold.
He swore that Dick, in livery strip'd with lace,
Should wed me soon, to keep me from disgrace;
But I nor footman priz'd, nor golden fee;
For what is lace or gold, compar'd to thee
“My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
‘'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.”
“Now plain I ken whence Love his rise begun;
Sure he was born some bloody butcher's son, 90
Bred up in shambles, where our younglings slain
Erst taught him mischief, and to sport with pain.
The father only silly sheep annoys,
The son the sillier shepherdess destroys.
Does son or father greater mischief do?
The sire is cruel, so the son is too.
“My plaint, yelasses, with this burthen aid,
‘'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.”
“Farewell, ye woods, ye meads, ye streams
that flow;
A sudden death shall rid me of my woe,

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This penknife keen my windpipe shall divide.
What' shall I fall as squeaking pigs have dy'd?
No—To some tree this carcase I'll suspend.
But worrying curs find such untimely end
I’ll speed me to the pond, where the high stool
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That stool, the dread of every scolding quean;
Yet, sure a lover should not die so mean
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits; 110
And thence, if courage holds, myself I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below.
“Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own.”
The Sun was set; the night came on apace,
And falling dews bewet around the place;
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,

And till to morrow comes defers her fate. 120


hob Nelia,

Hohnetta, seated in a dreary vale, In pensive mood rehears'd her piteous tale; Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan, And pining Echo answers groan for groan. * I rue the day, a rueful day I trow, The woeful day, a day indeed of woe! When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove, a maiden fine bedight he hapt to love; The maidcn fine bedight his love retains, And for the village he forsakes the plains. Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear; spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care. • With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.’ “ when first the year I heard the cuckow sing, And call with welcome note the budding spring, I straightway set a-running with such haste, Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast; Tiii spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, Upon a rising bank I sat adown, 2 Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth, I swear, Therein I spy'd this yellow frizzled hair, As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue, As if upon his comely pate it grew. • with my sharp heel I three times mark the ground And turn me thrice around, around, around.’ “At eve last Midsummer no sleep I sought, But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought; I scatter'd round the seed on every side, And three times in a trembling accent cry'd, • This hemp seed with my virgin band I sow, Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow’


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I straight look'd back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.
“With my sharp heel I three times mark the
And turn me thrice around, around, around.”

“Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind Their paramours with mutual chirpings find; I rearly rose, just at the break of day, Before the Sun had chas'd the stars away; A-field I went, amid the morning dew, To milk my kine (for so should huswives do); Thee first I spy'd; and the first swain we see, In spite of Fortune, shall our true-love be. See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take; And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake?

“With my sharp heel I three times mark the


And turn me thrice around, around, around.”

“Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail, That might my secret lover's name reveal. 50. Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found, (For always snails near sweetest fruit abound). I seiz'd the vermine, whom I quickly sped, 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 1 For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.

“With my sharp heel I three times mark the

- ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.’ 60

“Two hazel nuts I threw into the flame, And to each mut I gave a sweetheart's name; This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz'd, That in a flame of brightest colour blaz'd. As blaz'd the nut, so may thy passion grow; For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow. “With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.’ 69 “As peasecods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to see One that was closely fill'd with three times three, Which, when I cropp'd, I safely home convey'd, And o'er the door the spell in secret laid; My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new, While from the spindle I the fleeces drew ; The latch mev'd up, when, who should first come in, But, in his proper person—Lubberkin. I broke my yarn, surprisd the sight to see; " Sure sign that he would break his word with me. Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted slight: So may again his love with mine unite 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 Cast or West, Fly where the man is found that I love best.” He leaves my hand; see, to the W. st he's flown, To call my true-love from the faithless town.


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