THE

SHEPHERD'S WEEK.

IN

SIX PASTORAL S.

Thefe are Mr. Gay's principal performance. The were originally intended, I fuppose, as a bur lefque on thofe of Philips; but, perhaps without defigning it, he has hit the true spirit of paftoral poetry. In fact, he more resembles Theocritus than any other English paftoral writer whatfoever. There runs through the whole a strain of ruftic pleasantry which should ever distinguis this fpecies of compofition; but how far the antiquated expreffions used here may contribute to the humour, I will not determine; for my own part, I could wish the fimplicity were preserved, without recurring to fuch obfolete antiquity for the manner of expreffing it.

MONDAY;

MOND A Y;

O R,

THE SQUA BBLE.

LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODDIPOLE.

TH

LOBBIN CLout.

HY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake, No thrufles fhrill the bramble bush forfake, No chirping lark the welkin fheen invokes, No damfel yet the fwelling udder ftrokes ; O'er yonder hill dees fcant the dawn appear, Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

CUDDY.

Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
For, he that loves, a ftranger is to reft;

If fwains belye not, thou haft prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rifing rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Thofe arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda fmites, Buxoma me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,

Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf: Woe worth the tongue! may blifters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.

CUDDY.

Hold, witlefs Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arife.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithfome fwain,
The wifeft lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the fkies,
To know when hail will fall, or.winds arise.
He taught us erft the heifer's tale to view ;
When ftuck aloft, that show'rs would strait enfue:
He first that useful fecret did explain,

That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet foar high, and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear:
Let Cloddipole, then, hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his fweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this fame 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.

CUDDY.

Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting flouch; Be thine the oaken ftaff, or mine the pouch.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

My Blouzelinda is the blitheft lafs,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daifie that befide her grows;
Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens fweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gillifiow'r more fair,
Than daisie, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.

CUDDY.

My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd.
Clean as young lambkins, or the goofe's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witlefs lamb may fport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play defteft feats around;
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near;
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.
With her, no fultry fummer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.

Come, Blouzelinda, eafe thy fwain's defire,
My fummer's fhadow, and my winter's fire!

CUDDY.

As with Buxoma, once, I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour feem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply, she were gone,
Like worky-days, I wish'd would foon be done.
Eftfoons, O fweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year fhall then be holiday.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As Blouzelinda, in a gamefome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kifs,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amifs.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was fweeter than the ripen'd hay.

CUDDY.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftrok'd her milky care,
I queintly ftole a kifs; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet, after, granted one or two.
Lobbin, I fwear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

LOBBIN CLOUT.]

Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,

Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear;

Oats,