and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His six pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representa- tion of the manners, customs, and notions of our rurics. We shall insert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in fingering the praises of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The per- sons named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.
Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake; No thrush shrill the bramble-bush forsoak; No chirping lark the welkin th'seen * invokes; No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes; O'er yonder hill does scant § the dawn appear; Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?†
Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween‡ my plight is gueſt; For he that loves, a stranger is to reſt. If swains betye not, thou halt prov'd the smart, And Blouzalinda's mitrefs of thy heart. This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind; Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind. And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree; Thee Blouzalinda smites, Buxoma me.
Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half, Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf. Woe worth the tongue, may blisters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal!
Cud. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Let blisters fore on thy own tongue arise. Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain, The wisest lout of all the neighb'ring plain! From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise. He taught us erft * the heifer's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that show'r's would straight ensue: He first that uſeful secret did explain, That prickling corns foretold the gath'ring rain. When swallows fleet for high and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweet-heart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of flecked fallow-deer; This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddeft hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.
Cud. Begin thy carrols then, thou vanquish flouch; Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blitheſt laſt, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-graſs. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daffy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilly-flower of gardens sweet, Fair is the marigold, for potage meet: But Blouzalind's than gilly-flower more fair, Than daffy, marigold, or king-cup rare.
Cud. My brown Buxoma is the feateſt maid That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goſte's down, And like the goldinch 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 deſteft † feats around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray. Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near; Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year. With her no fultry summer's heat I know; In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow. Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire, My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!
Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply she were gone, Like worky-days I wish'd would loon be done. Eftsoons ‡, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.
Lob. Lob. As Blouzalinda, in a gameesome mood, Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood, I gily ran and snatch'd a lafty kis; 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.
Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, With gentle finger stroak'd her milky care, Waggishly I quainly stole a kis; 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 cow's.
Lob. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swans potatoes are the cheer; Oats for their feats the Scottish shepherds grind, Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind: While the loves turnips, butter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.
Cud. 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 the loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
Lob. As once I play'd at blind-man's buff, it hap't About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt; I mis'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzalind; True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
Cud. 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