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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 leather wings, And turn me thrice around, around, around.' And the hoarse owl his woful dirges sings;

"Last May-day fair I search'd 10 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.


Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,
|(For always snails near sweetest fruit abound).

I seiz'd the vermin, 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!
HOBNELIA, seated in a dreary vale,

For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.
In pensive mood rehears'd her piteous tale ;
Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,

. With my sharp heel I three times mark the

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 cattle 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 ground, ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 68 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; Upon a rising bank I sat adown,


The latch mov'd up, when, who should first come in, 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. As if upon his comely pate it grew.

Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted sleight:

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-Ay 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 youth.

"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 of 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, A 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,

And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring. 20 ground,

Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come ; And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

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,

BUMKINET. 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, ears,

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 flow, 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.
Way, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem ?

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,

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 meos, as some Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena

pretend; but from the Teutonic dyrke, laudare, to praise Ipse dedit Meris.


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 lylax 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

He vows,



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 warn'd 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 shell, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 There secretly I've bid 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 bouile, long in harvests tried, Which she in rows pil'd 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, There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd. 80 A token kind to Bumkinet is sent.”

130 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 Blouzelinda, 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, O'er her now empty seat 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 mulld 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 toll'd 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 æstum
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, Daphninque tuum tollemus ad astra.

Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadæ,

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




For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS. And only sing and seek their prey by night.

How turnips hide their swelling heads below:

And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ;

How Will-o-wisp misleads night-faring clowns

O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs. Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care ;

of stars he told, that shoot with shining trail, Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60 With Bowzy beus' songs exalt thy verse,

He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. And in what climates they renew their breed, 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil

(Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend

Or to the Moon in midnight hours ascend); Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ;

Where swallows in the Winter's season keep, Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10 And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; The lads, with sharpen’d hook and sweating brow, Till the bright Sun has nine times set and rose ;

How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close Cut down the labors of the winter plow.

(For huntsmen by their long experience find, To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,

That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.) 70 She feign'd her coat or garter was untied ; Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,

For still new fairs before his eyes arose. And merry reapers what they list will ween.

How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill,

The various fairings of the country maid.
That Echo answer'd from the distant hill;

Long silken laces hang upon the twine,
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay’d. 20 How the tight lass knives, combs

, and scissors spies,

And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; When fast asleep they Bowzy beus spied,

And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;

Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
That Bowzy beus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string ;

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80

The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
That Bowzy beus who, with fingers speed,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells

And all the fair is crowded in his song.
That Bowzy beus who, with jocund tongue,
Ballads and roundelays and catches sung:

His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;

Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight. 30

And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; " Ah, Bowzy bee, why didst thou stay so long?

Jack Pudding in his party-color'd jacket

Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous

Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, strong! Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night; of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats

. 90 But thou sat'st toping till the morning light.”

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood :

(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood !) Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout:

How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, (For custom says, “Whoe'er this venture proves,

And fearless at the glittering falchion smil'd; For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.")

Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found, By her example Dorcas bolder grows,

And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around.

(Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, And plays a tickling straw within his nose.

Your names shall live for ever in my song.)
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke
The sneering swains with stammering speech be- How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,

100 spoke :

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell “To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,

What woful wars in Chevy-chace befell,
As for the maids—I've something else in store."
No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,

When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn, But lads and lasses round about him throng.

Wars to be wept by children yet unborn! Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd

Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd,

If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud ;

Yet shall the 'squire, who fought on bloody stumps, Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear, Like Bowzybeus soothes th' attentive ear.

50 By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps


All in the land of Essex next he chants, 109 Of Nature's laws his carols first begun,

How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants : Why the grave owl can never face the Sun.


Ver. 22.
Serta procul tantum capiti dela psa jacebant. Virg.

Ver. 40.
Sanguineis frontem moris et tempora pingit. Virg.

Ver. 43.
Carmina, que vultis, cognoscitel carmina vobis;
Huic aliud mercedis erit.

Ver 47.
Nec tantum Phæbo gaudet Parnassia rupes:
Nec tantum Rhodope mirantur et Ismarus Orphea.


Ver. 51. Our swain had possibly read Tusser, from
whence he might have collected these philosophical ob-
Namque canebat, uti magnum per inane coacta, &c.

Ver. 97.
Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possupt,
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo. Virg.

Ver. 99. A song in the comedy of Love for Love, be ginning “A soldier and a sailor," &c.

Ver. 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's. See his poems

How the grave brother stood on bank so green-
Happy for him if mares had never been !

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm.

He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot. Why should I tell of Bateman, or of Shore, Or Wantley's Dragon, slain by valiant Moor, The Bower of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?

120 His carols ceas'd: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose ; and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The power that guards the drunk, his sleep attends, Till ruddy, like his face, the Sun descends.

When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.

“That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak !)
Bodes me no good.” No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road, Rail'd, swore, and curs'd : “ Thou croaking toad, A murrain take thy whoreson throat! I knew misfortune in the note."

Dame," quoth the Raven, "spare your oaths Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For, had you laid this britule ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the hundred With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."





“Why are those tears ? why droops your head ?
Is then your other husband dead ?
Or does a worse disgrace betide ?
Hath no one since his death applied ?"

“Alas ! you know the cause too well ;
The salt is spilt, to me it fell ;
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across ;
On Friday too ! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell :
God send my Cornish friends be well!"

“Unhappy Widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears ;
Let not thy stomach be suspended ;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert I'll read my Fable.”

Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware ;

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blernish find;
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood ;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.

“ Draw near, my birds! the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies ; Behold the busy negro race, See millions blacken all the place! Fear not; like me, with freedom eat; An Ant is most delightful meat. How bless'd, how envied, were our life, Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife ; But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days. Sometimes with oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine; From the low peasant to the lord, The Turkey smokes on every board. Sure men for gluttony are curs'd, Of the seven deadly sins the worst."

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, Thus answer'd from the neighboring beech "Ere you remark another's sin, Bid thy own conscience look within; Control thy more voracious bill, Nor for a breakfast nations kill."

Ver. 112.
Et fortunatam, si nunquam armenta fuissent,

Virg. Ver. 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam Nisi, &c.

Virg. Ver. 117--120. Old English ballads.

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