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Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tottering maid.
High leap'd the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I spy'd - but faithful sweethearts never tell.



This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain. 66 What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, “ The richest metal joined with the same?”


Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right, I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight. " What flower is that which royal honour craves,

Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves ?”

CLODDIPOLE. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains ! An oaken staff each merits for his pains. 120 But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn, And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn. Your herds for want of water stand a-dry, They're weary of your songs - and so am I.

Ver. 113. Marygold.
Ver. 117. Rosemary.

Dic quibus in terris inscripti nomina regum
Nascantur flores.

Virg. Ver. 120. Et vitula tu dignus & hic.




Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed, Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed; In every wood his carols sweet were known, At every wake his nimble feats were shown. When in the ring the rustic routs he threw, The damsels' pleasures with his conquests grew; Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head, His danger smites the breast of every maid, But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain, The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain ; 10 Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow, On lessen with her sieve the barley-mow; Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she press’d, And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd; But Marian now, devoid of country cares, Nor yellow butter, nor sage-cheese, prepares, For yearning love the witless maid employs, And “ Love” say swains, “all busy heed destroys." Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart ; A lass that Cicely hight had won his heart, Cicely, the western lass, that tends the kee, The rival of the parson's maid was she. In dreary shade now Marian lies along, And, mixt with sighs, thus wails in plaining song :


Ver. 21. Kee, a west-country word for kine, or “ Ah, woeful day ! ah, woeful noon and morn! When first by thee my younglings wbite 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. 30 “ Ah, Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart


true ? What I have done for thee, will Cicely do ? Will she thy linen wash, or hosen darn, And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn ? Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat ? And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait, Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide, In service-time drew Cicely's eyes aside ?

" Where'er I gad, I cannot hide my care, My new disasters in


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. 50 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 smoking pail :
In harvest, when the Sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy draught supply ; 60
Whene'er you mow'd, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake :
When in the welkin gathering showers were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy car,
Awaiting heard the jingling bells from far,
Straight on the fire the sooty pot I placid,
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 barley-loaf ; 70
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; 80
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 gypsies ; bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.

“ Have I not sat with thee full many a night, When dying embers were our only light,

When every creature did in slumbers lie,
Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I? 90
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 posy 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.'

100 But woe is me ! such presents luckless prove, For knives, they tell me, always sever love."

Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimful, When Goody Dobbins 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.



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 chants so sweet a note.

Dumps, or dumbs, made use of to express a fit of the sullens. Some have pretended that it is derived from Dumops, a king of Egypt, that built a pyramid, and died of melancholy. So mopes,

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