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Refound

ye

hills, refound my mournful ftrain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain :

Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rife,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, fpent with toil and heat,
In their loofe traces from the field retreat;
While curling fmoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Refound ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pafs'd the day :
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While fhe with garlands hung the bending boughs;
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful ftrain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
Juft Gods! fhall all things yield returns but love?
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
The fhepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.'
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart, while I preferv'd my fheep,
Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my fmart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?

What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful ftrains!
I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.—
From fhepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forfake mankind, and all the world-but love!
I know thee, love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain :
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains.
No more, ye hills, no more refound my ftrains!
Thus fung the fhepherds, till th'approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,

When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To thefe Paftorals, which are written agreeably to the tafte of antiquity, and the rules above prefcrib'd, we shall beg leave to fubjoin another that may be called a burlefque Paftoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and defcribed the fhepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of thofe of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the paftoral. His fix Paftorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively reprefentation of the manners, cuftoms, and notions of our rufticks. We fhall infert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in finging the praises of their fweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controverfy. The perfons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throftles thrill the bramble bush forfake;
No chirping lark the welkin fheen invokes ;
No damfel yet the fwelling udder strokes ;
O'er yonder hill does fcant § the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott fo rear †?

CUDDY.

Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween ‡, my plight is gueft;
For he that loves, a firanger is to reft.

If fwains belye not, thou haft prov'd the fmart,
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 behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.

* Shining or bright sky. § Scarce. † Early. + Conceive,

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 skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arife.
He taught us erft* the heifer's tail to view,
When ftuck aloft, that fhow'rs would straight enfue:
He firft that useful fecret did explain,

That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When fwallows fleet foar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praife his fweet-heart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this fame oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole fhall give the prize to me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of fleekeft fallow deer:
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

CUDDY.

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

LOBBIN CLOUT.

My Blouzalinda is the blitheft lafs,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grafs.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daily that befide her grows;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of, gardens fweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daify, marygold, or king-cup rare.

Formerly.

CUDDY.

My brown Buxoma is the feateft maid, That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goofe's down, And like the goldfinch in her funday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frifking kid delight the gaping fwain ; 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 Blouzalind is near ;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no fultry fummer's heat I know;
In winter, when the's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, eafe thy fwain's defire,
My fummer's fhadow, and my winter's fire!
CUDDY.

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

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing flood,
I flily 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 sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

CUDDY.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftroak'd her milky care.

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I quaintly* ftole a kiss; 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 fwains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their feafts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turneps are the food of Blouzalind:
While fhe loves turneps, butter I'll defpife,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

CUDDY.

In good roaft-beef my land-lord sticks his knife, The capon fat, delights his dainty wife; Pudding our parfon eats, the 'fquire loves hare, But white-pot thick, is my Buxoma's fare. While fhe loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As once I play'd at blind-man's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes, the towel thick was wrapt:
I mifs'd the fwains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind,
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
CUDDY.

As at bot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rofe, and read soft mischief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

On two near elms, the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda fwung: With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and scartlet hose.

* Waggishly.

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