This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager that the prize shall be my due.
Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch!
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
L. Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows;
Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.
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.
L. 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.
L. 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.
L. Clout. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen but-
ter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize.
Cuddy. 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.
L. Clout. As once I play'd at blindman's buff, it
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;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
L. Clout. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I
Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung.
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.
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.
L. Clout. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst ex-
plain,
This wily riddle puzzles every swain.
"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. 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.
HOBNELIA, seated in a dreary vale,
In pensive mood rehears❜d her piteous tale;
Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,
And pining Echo answers groan for groan.
I rue the day, a rueful day I trow,
The woful day, a day indeed of woe!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love;
The maiden fine bedight his love retains,
And for the village he forsakes the plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around."
When first the year I heard the cuckow sing, And call with welcome note the budding spring, I straightway set a-running with such haste, Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, Upon a rising bank I sat adown, Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth, I swear, Therein I spy'd this yellow frizzled hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,
As if upon his comely pate it grew.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
And turn me thrice around, around, around."
At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought:
I scatter'd round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cry'd,
"This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow."
I straight look'd back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
And turn me thrice around, around, around."
Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind Their paramours with mutual chirpings find; I rearly rose, just at the break of day, Before the sun had chas'd the stars away; A-field I went, amid the morning dew, To milk my kine (for so should huswives do); Thee first I spy'd: and the first swain we see, In spite of fortune shall our true-love be. See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take; And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake? "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around."
Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail,
That might my secret lover's name reveal.
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