In dreary shade now Marian lies along,
And, mixt with sighs, thus wails in plaining song:
Ah! woeful day! ah! woeful 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! can'st thou leave thy sweetheart true;
What I have done for thee will Cic❜ly do?
Will she thy linen wash or hozen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn?
Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat,
And ev'ry Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait ?
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service time drew Cic'ly's eyes aside.
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 neighbours 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 smoaking pail :
In harvest, when the sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply;
Whene'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sunburnt for thy sake:
When in the welkin gath'ring show'rs were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy car,
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far:
Straight on the fire the sooty pot I plac't,
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 barly loaf,
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah! love me more, or love thy pottage less!
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 Gipsies! bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.
Have I not sate with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry 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,
Could'st thou spell o'er the posie on thy knife,
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 wo is me! such presents luckless prove,
For knives, they tell me, always sever love.
Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brim full, When Goody Dobins brought her cow to bull. With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,
Then saw the cow well serv'd, and took a groat. 1c6
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 chaunts so sweet a note.
No magpie 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.
Awhile, O D'Ursey! lend an ear or twain,
Nor, tho' in homely guise, my verse disdain ;
Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the sun,
Whether thy Muse does at Newmarket run,
* Dumps, or Dumbs, made use of to express a fit of the sullens. Some have pretended that it is derived from Dumopes, 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 Dumplin, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of England.
Ver 5.1 Immemor herbarum quos est mirata juvenca Certantes quoram stupefactae carmine lynces; Et mutata suos requierunt flumina cursus.
Ver 9.1 Tu mihi seu magni superas jam saxa timavi, Siveoram Illyrico legis æquiris-
Ver. 11.] An opera written by this author, called The World in the Sun; or, The Kingdom of Birds. He is
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'Ursey's lyricks swell in ev'ry voice;
Yet suffer me, thou bard of wondrous meed,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.
Now the sun drove adown the western road,
And oxen, laid at rest, forget the goad;
The clown, fatigu'd, trudg'd homeward with his spade,
Across the meadows stretch'd the lengthen'd shade;
When Sparabella, pensive and forlorn,
Alike with yearning love and labour worn,
Lean'd on her rake, and straight with doleful guise
Did this sad plaint in mournful notes devise:
Come night as dark as pitch, surround my head,
From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;
The ribband that his val'rous cudgel won,
Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on :
Sure, if he had eyes (but Love, they say, has none)
I whilom by that ribband had been known.
Ah! well-a-day! I'm shent with baneful smart,
For with the ribband he bestow'd his heart.
My plaint, ye Lasses! with this burden aid, 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.
also famous for his song on the Newmarket Horse-race, and several others that are sung by the British swains. Ver 17.] Meed, an old word for fame or renown. Ver 18.---Hanc sine tempora circum
Inter victrices ederam tibi serpere lauros.
Ver 25. Incumbens tereti Damon sic cœpit Olivæ. Ver. 331 Shent, an old word signifying hurt, or harmed.
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