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,
Or lesson 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, says swains, all busy heed destroys.
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart,
A lass, that Cic'ly hight, had won his heart,
Cicly, 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:
Ah! woful day; ah woful 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! canst thou leave thy sweetheart true; What I have done for thee, will Cic'ly 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 kersy-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 thrasher 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;
Whene'er you mow'd, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sunburnt 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 gingling bells from far;
Straight on the fire the sooty pot I plac't,
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands in haste.
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I slic'd the luncheon from the barley 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 gipsies 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 every 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 thee costly presents for thy sake,
Couldst 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 woe is me! such, presents luckless prove,
For knives, they tell me, always sever love.'
Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull, 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.
Sparabella.
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:
* 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.
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:
A while, O D'Urfey! lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guise, my verse disdain;
Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the sun,
Whether thy Muse does at Newmarket run,
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'Urfey's lyrics swell in every 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 fatigued 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 moanful notes devise:
Come night as dark as pitch, surround my head, From Sparabella, Bumkinet is fled;
The ribbon that his valorous cudgel won,
Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on :
Sure if he'd eyes (but Love, they say, has none)
I whilom by that ribbon had been known.
Ah! well-a-day! I'm shent with baneful smart,
For with the ribbon he bestow'd his heart.
'My plaint, ye lasses! with this burden aid,
"Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.
'Shall heavy Clumsilis with me compare? View this, ye lovers! and like me despair. Her blubber'd lip by smutty pipes is worn, And in her breath tobacco whiffs are borne ;
An opera written by this author, called The World in the Sun; or, The Kingdom of Birds; he is also famous for his song on the Newmarket horse-race, and several others that are sung by the British swains.
The cleanly cheese-press she could never turn,
Her awkward fist did ne'er employ the churn;
If e'er she brew'd, the drink would strait go sour,
Before it ever felt the thunder's power:
No huswifery the dowdy creature knew ;
To sum up all, her tongue confess'd the shrew.
My plaint, ye lasses! with this burden aid,
"Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.
I've often seen my visage in yon lake,
Nor are my features of the homeliest make.
Though Clumsilis may boast a whiter dye,
Yet the black sloe turns in my rolling eye;
And fairest blossoms drop with every blast,
But the brown beauty will like hollies last.
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Katherine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet she, alas! the witless lout hath won,
And by her gain poor Sparabell's undone !
Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite,
The clucking hen make friendship with the kite;
Let the fox simply wear the nuptial noose,
And join in wedlock with the waddling goose;
For Love hath brought a stranger thing to pass,
The fairest shepherd weds the foulest lass.
'My plaint, ye lasses! with this burden aid,
"Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.
Sooner shall cats disport in waters clear, And speckled mackarel graze the meadows fair; Sooner shall screech-owls bask in sunny day, And the slow ass on trees, like squirrels play; Sooner shall snails on insect pinions rove, Than I forget my shepherd's wonted love.
My plaint, ye lasses! with this burden aid, 'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.
Ah! didst thou know what proffers I withstood, When late I met the squire in yonder wood; To me he sped, regardless of his game, While all my cheek was glowing red with shame; My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful look, Then from his purse of silk a guinea took;
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