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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, woful day! ah, woful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were shorn;
Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,
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.

"Ah, Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart
true?

"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;
Couldst thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife,
30 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."

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?
And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait,
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service-time drew Cicely's eyes aside?

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50

"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 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.
"Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night.
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 repair'd;
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 welkin 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;
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less!

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70

"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;
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.

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

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90

100

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 wellserv'd, and took a groat.

WEDNESDAY; OR, THE DUMPS.*

SPARABELLA.

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.

A while, O D'Urfey! lend an ear or twain,
Nor, tho' in homely guise, my verse disdain; 10
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;

*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 Egyptian 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 dumpling, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of : England.

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Shall heavy Clumsilis with me compare? 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, ye lasses, with this burthen aid, "Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'

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"Sooner shall cats disport in waters clear, And speckled mack'rel 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?

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My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,

'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'

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80

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.

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Farewell, ye woods, ye meads, ye streams tha flow;

50 A sudden death shall rid me of my woe.

"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. Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek, While Katharine pears adorn my ruddy cheek. Yet she, alas! the witless 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 noose, 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.'

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This penknife keen my wind pipe shall divide.
What! shall I fall as squeaking pigs have died?
No-To some tree this carcass 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."

Ver. 67.

Ante leves ergo pascentur in æthere cervi, Et freta destituent nudos in littore piscesQuàm nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.

Virg.

Ver. 89. To ken. Scire. Chaucer, to ken, and kende; notus A. S. cunnam. Goth. kunnam. Germanis kennen. Danis kiende. Islandis kunna. Belgis kennen. This word is of general use, but not very common, though not un. known to the vulgar. Ken, for prospicere, is well known, and used to discover by the eye. Ray, F. R. S.

Nunc scio quid sit amor, &c.
Crudelis mater magis an puer improbus ille?
Improbus ille puer, crudelis tu quoque mater.

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Virg.

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-vivite sylvæ: Præceps aërii speculá de montis in undas Deferar.

Virg.

Virg.

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 woful dirges sings; The prudent maiden deems it now too late, And, till to-morrow comes, defers her fate.

THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL.

HOBNELIA.

HOBNELIA, 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 woful day, a day indeed of woe!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love;
The maiden 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.

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Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail, That might my secret lover's name reveal. 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! For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.

50

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' "Two hazel-nuts I threw into the flame, And to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name; This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz'd, That in a flame of brightest color blaz'd. 10 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.'

"When first the year I heard the cuckoo 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; Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, Upon a rising bank I sat adown,

Then doff'd my shoe, and, by my troth, I swear,
Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,
As if upon his comely pate it grew.

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With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, 68

And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

"As peascods 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 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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And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

"I pare this pippin round and round again,
My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain,
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen

40 Than what the paring makes upon the green.

Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind Their paramours with mutual chirpings find; I early 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 spied; 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?

Ver. 8. Dight, or bedight, from the Saxon word dightan, which signifies to set in order.

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Ver. 21. Doff and don, contracted from the words do off and do on

Ver. 93. Transque caput jace; ne respexeris.

Virg.

"This pippin shall another trial make, See from the core two kernels brown I take; This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn; And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne. 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!

From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, 100 And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.

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.
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,
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure !'
'With my sharp heel I three times mark

ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

110

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Hang sorrow!" Let's to yonder hut repair, 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." the Of "Patient Grissel” I devise to sing,

120

"As I was wont, I trudg'd last market-day To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay, 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, When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 130

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

GRUBBINOL.

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

BUMKINET.

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.

But hold!—our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,

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The peerless maid that did all maids excel.

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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 fagots large 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, Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;

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Th' 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.

60

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 The poultry there will seem around to stand, Waiting upon her charitable hand.

No succor meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,
Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.
I pitch'd the sheaves, (oh, could I do so now!)
Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd. 80
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see,
But thy memorial will revive in me.
Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show;
Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;
For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread;
For Blouzelinda, blithesome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verse upon her stone:
"Here Blouzelinda lies-Alas, alas!
Weep, shepherds-and remember flesh is grass."

GRUBBINOL.

Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear, Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear; Or winter porridge to the laboring youth, Or buns and sugar to the damsel's tooth; Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay, Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

90

When Blouzelind expir'd, the wether's bell Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell; 100 The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she died, And shrilling crickets in the chimney cried!

Ver. 84.

The boding raven on her cottage sate,
And with hoarse croaking warn'd us of her fate;
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spied,
Which erst I saw when Goody Dobson died.

How shall I, void of tears, her death relate,
When on her darling's bed her mother sate! 110
These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke,
And of the dead let none the will revoke :

"Mother," quoth she, "let not the poultry need. And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed: Be these my sister's care-and every morn Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn; The sickly calf that's hous'd be sure to tend, Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend. Yet ere I die-see, mother, yonder shelf, There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf. Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid; Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid. The rest is yours-my spinning-wheel and rake Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake;

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My new straw hat, that's trimly lin'd with green,
Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean.
My leathern bottle, long in harvests tried,
Be Grubbinol's-this silver ring beside:
Three silver pennies, and a nine-pence bent,
A token kind to Bumkinet is sent."
Thus spoke the maiden, while the mother cried;
And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she died.

130

To show their love, the neighbors far and near Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier. Sprig'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, While dismally the parson walk'd before. Upon her grave the rosemary they threw, The daisy, butter-flower, and endive blue.

After the good man warn'd us from his text, 139 That none could tell whose turn would be the next; He said, that Heaven would take her soul, no 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,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground;
Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze,
For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cider mull'd with ginger warm. 150
For Gaffer Treadwell told us, by the by,
"Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry."

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or lasses with soft strokings milk the cow;
While paddling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or battening hogs roll in the sinking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise;
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,
Till bonny Susan sped across the plain.
They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd,
And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.

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Ver. 153.

Virg.

Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit, Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicada, Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.

Virg.

Ver. 96. An imitation of Theocritus.

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