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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.

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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 Maeris.

Ver. 127.1

VIRG.

Ποτον κακὸν ἁνριον οίσω. THEOC.

Ver. 131.] Nescio quid certe est: et hylax in limine

latrat.

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 show'r of leaves is borne,
And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn;
Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blithe affords;
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards,
Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl,

Let cyder new wash sorrow from thy soul,

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GRUB. Ah! Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert From these sad plains all merriment is flown; [gone, Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear. BUMK. Hang Sorrow! let's to yonder hut repair, And, with trim sonnets, cast away our care.

*

Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamentation over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin dirigie, in the Popish hymn, Dirigie gressus meus, as some pretend, but from the Teutonic dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol: whence it is possible their dyrke and our dyrge was a laudatory song to conmemorate and applaud the dead. Cowell's Interpreter. Ver. 15. Incipe Mopse prior si quos aut Phyllidis ignes

Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri,

Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play,

Thou sing'st most sweet "O'er hills and far away."
Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,

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

GRUB. Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my wo shall distant vallies ring;

The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,
For, wo is me!---our Blouzelind is dead.

BUMK. 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.
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,

The peerless maid that did all maids excel.
Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
And ev'ning tears upon the grass be spread;
The rolling streams with wat'ry grief shall flow,
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 dy❜d.

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.

20

40

Ver. 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch glooren, to re

create.

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,
When rotten sticks our fuel have supply'd;
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;
Or, when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay,
Th' untoward creatures to the stye 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 spongy 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.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply,

50

60

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,

I pitch'd the sheaves (oh ! could I do so now)
Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There ev'ry 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, blithsome maid ! is dead.
Lament, ye Swainst 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,
GRUB. Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear
Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear.

Ver. 84.7 Pro molli viola, pro purpureo Narcisso
Carduus, et spinis surgit Paliurus acutis.

90

VIRG. Ver. 90.] Et tumulum facite, et tumulo superaddite carmen.

Ver. 93.1 Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta, Quale sopor fessis in gramine: quale per æstam Dulcis aquæ saliente sitim restinguere rivo.

Nos tamen hæc quocumque modo tibi nostra vicissim Dicemus, Daphninque tuum tollemus ad astra. VIRG.

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