CUDDY.

My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd.
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest 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 Blouzelind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow..
Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

CUDDY.

As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

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70

Ver. 56. Deft, an old word, signifying brisk, or

nimble.

Ver. 69. Eftsoons, from eft, an ancient British word, signifying soon. So that eftsoons is a doubling of the word soon; which is, as it were, to say twice soon, or very soon.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
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 strok'd her milky care,
I queintly stole a kiss, at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, 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 swains potato is the cheer;

Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind, Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.

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Ver. 79. Queint has various significations in the ancient English authors. I have used it in this place in the same sense as Chaucer hath done in his Miller's Tale. "As clerkes being full subtle and queint," (by which he means arch, or waggish); and not in that obscene sense wherein he useth it in the line immediately following.

Ver. 85.

Populus Alcidæ gratissima, vitis Iaccho, Formosa myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo, Phillis amat corylos. Illas dum Phillis amabit Nec myrtus vincet corylos nec laurea Phoebi, &c.

VIRG.

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potato, prize.

CUDDY.

90

In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife, The capon fat delights his dainty wife, Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare, But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare. While she 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 blindman's buff, it hapt About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt. I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind, True speaks that ancient proverb, "Love is blind."

CUDDY.

As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,

And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; 100 Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung, With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.

Ver. 103-110. were not in the early editions. N.

CUDDY.

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.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain.

110

"What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, "The richest metal joined with the same?"

CUDDY.

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.

120

Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains! An oaken staff each merits for his pains. 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.

Ver. 120. Et vitula tu dignus & hic.

VIRG.

VIRG.

TUESDAY; OR, THE DITTY.

MARIAN.

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; 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,

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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

cows.