Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen

Than what the paring marks upon the green. 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 the' 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!
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.

'As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree,

105

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 trudged last market-day To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. 120 I made my market long before 'twas night; My purse grew heavy, and my basket light.

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

Virg.

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

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

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

Ver. 127.]

- Ποτον κακον αυριον οίσω.

Virg.

Theoc.

Ver. 131.] Nescio quid certè est: et Hylax in limine

latrat.

Virg.

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;
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 squeezed 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;

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 applaud the dead. Cowell's Interpreter.

16

Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer,
And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
BUмK. Hang sorrow! let's to yonder hut repair,
And with trim sonnets cast away our care.
Gillian of Croydon well the pipe can play,
Thou sing'st most sweet 'O'er hills and far away.'
Of Paient Grissel I devise to sing,

And catches quaint shall make the valleys 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 valleys ring;
The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,
For woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead.

26

BUмK. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee! No happiness is now reserved 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.

30

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed, And evening tears upon the grass be spread; The rolling streams with watery 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

Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our passion knew.

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

Virg.

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

45

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; 50
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,

55

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. 60
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.

65

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 succour 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.

75