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“ As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee. 110 He wist not when the hempen string I drew, Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue. Together fast I tye the garters twain ; And while I knit the knot repeat this strain : "Three times a true love's knot I tye secure, Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure !' • With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
“ As I was wont, I trudg'd last market-day To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay, 120 I made my market long before 'twas night, My purse grew heavy, and my basket light. Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, And in love-powder all my money spent. 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.
Ver. 109. Necte tribus nodis ternos, Amarylli, colores : Necte, Amarylli, modo; et Veneris dic vincula necto.
VIRG. Ver. 123. Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena Ipse dedit Moeris.
VIRG. Ver. 127. Ποτών κακόν αύριον οισώ. . THEOC.
• With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 130 But hold !- - our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his
swears, he'll give me a green gown : Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown !”
FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGE.*
Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem ?
Ver. 131. Nescio quid certe est; et Hylax in limine latrat.
VIRG. * Dirge, or dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamentation, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin dirige in the popish hymn, dirige gressus meos, as some pretend; but from the Teutonic dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is possible their dyrke, and our dirge, was a laudatory song to commemorate and applaud the dead.
Yet ev’n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, From these sad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
Hang sorrow !" Let's to yonder hut repair, And with trim sonnets“ cast away our care. “ 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 valleys ring. 20 Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come; From hence we view our flocks securely roam.
Yes, blithsome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with iny woe shall distant valleys ring. The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, For, woe is me! our Blouzelind is dead!
Is Blouzelinda dead ? farewell, my glee ! No happiness is now reserv'd for me.
Ver. 15. Incipe, Mopse, prior, si quos aut Phyllidis ignes Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri. VIRG.
Ver. 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch glooren, to
As the wood-pigeon coos without his mate,
Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
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. 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; 50 Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way, Or wallowing ʼmid 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 pripts the pound. 60
Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, And press from spungy curds the milky stream:
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.
Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,
heart by love was gain’d,
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!
Pro molli violâ, pro purpureo narcisso,