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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!'
Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, From these sad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer. And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
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."
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the Of “Patient Grissel" I devise to sing,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
"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
And turn me thrice around, around, around.' "But hold!—our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his
And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring. 20 Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come; From hence we view our flocks securely roam.
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!
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;
Th' untoward creatures to the sty I drove,
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,
Here Blouzelinda lies-Alas, alas!
Weep, shepherds-and remember flesh is grass."
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.
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!
The boding raven on her cottage sate,
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; 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.
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
And spoke the hour-glass in her praise-quite out.
While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit, Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicada, Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.
SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS.
SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ; Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care; Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays; With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil; Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10 The lads, with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow, Cut down the labors of the winter plow. To the near hedge young Susan steps aside, She feign'd her coat or garter was untied; Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen, And merry reapers what they list will ween. Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill, That Echo answer'd from the distant hill; The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd. 20 How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies,
When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, His hat and oaken staff lay close beside; That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing, Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string; That Bowzybeus who, with fingers speed,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue, Ballads and roundelays and catches sung: They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright, And in disport surround the drunken wight.
"Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous strong!
Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night; But thou sat'st toping till the morning light."
Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout: (For custom says, "Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") By her example Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering swains with stammering speech bespoke :
"To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,
As for the maids-I've something else in store."
Of Nature's laws his carols first begun,
His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
When, starting from her silver dream,
"Dame," quoth the Raven, "spare your oaths
THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.
"WHY are those tears? why droops your head?
Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.
IN other men we faults can spy,
A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
"Draw near, my birds! the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies; Behold the busy negro race,
See millions blacken all the place!
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,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill."
Bid thy own conscience look within; Control thy more voracious bill,
MATTHEW GREEN, a truly original poet, was born, is further attested, that he was a man of great probably at London, in 1696. His parents were re- probity and sweetness of disposition, and that hi spectable Dissenters, who brought him up within conversation abounded with wit, but of the most inthe limits of the sect. His learning was confined to offensive kind. He seems to have been subject to a little Latin; but, from the frequency of his clas- low-spirits, as a relief from which he composed his sical allusions, it may be concluded that what he principal poem, "The Spleen." He passed his read when young, he did not forget. The austerity life in celibacy, and died in 1737, at the early age in which he was educated had the effect of inspiring of forty-one, in lodgings in Gracechurch-street. him with settled disgust; and he fled from the The poems of Green, which were not made pub gloom of dissenting worship when he was no longer lic till after his death, consist of "The Spleen;" compelled to attend it. Thus set loose from the "The Grotto;" Verses on Barclay's Apology:" opinions of his youth, he speculated very freely "The Seeker," and some smaller pieces, all comon religious topics, and at length adopted the sys- prised in a small volume. In manner and subject tem of outward compliance with established forms, they are some of the most original in our language. and inward laxity of belief. He seems at one They rank among the easy and familiar, but are time to have been much inclined to the principles replete with uncommon thoughts, new and striking of Quakerism; but he found that its practice would images, and those associations of remote ideas by not agree with one who lived "by pulling off the some unexpected similitudes, in which wit prinhat." We find that he had obtained a place in the cipally consists. Few poems will bear more reCustom-house, the duties of which he is said to have peated perusals; and, with those who can fully enter discharged with great diligence and fidelity. It into them, they do not fail to become favorites.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.
THIS motley piece to you I send,
The want of method pray excuse,
The child is genuine, you may trace
"In this poem," Mr. Melmoth says, "there are more original thoughts thrown together than he had ever read in the same compass of lines."
† Gildon's Art of Poetry.
School-helps I want, to climb on high,
First know, my friend, I do not mean
† A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,
§ James More Smith, Esq. See Dunciad, B. ii. 1. 50. and FITZOSBORNE'S Letters, p. 114. the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction here alluded to are very fully explained.