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When as my
My goodly Stock, e'er yet they tafted Food,
came 'gan look askue;
Marsh be no more.
And when thy well-stript Kye * would yield
no more, Still on my Head the reeking + Kit I bore. And, oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome
Talk, We've held together ganging down the Balk I, Maundring $ at Time which wou'd na|| for us
stay, But now, I ween, mais no such Haste away. . Yet, O! return eftsoon **, and ease my Woe, And to some distant Parish let us go, And there again them leetsome ft Days re
2 store, Where unassail'd by meety ff Folk in Pow'r, Our Cattle yet may feed, tho' Snaith Marsh
be no more. But wae is me, I wot, I fand $$ am grown, Forgetting Susan is already gone, And Roger aims ||| e'er Lady-day to wed, The Bands last Sunday in the Church were bid; But let me, let me, first i’th' Churchyard lig, For soon I there must gang, my Grief's so big. All others in their Loss some Comfort find, Tho' Ned's like me reduc'd, yet Jenny's kind,
+ Pail. | A Land in the Field for Foot. Paths and Carriages,
f Finding Fault. Makes. ** An old Word for very soon. tt Lightsome or
11 Mighty Men. $$ Foolish or kupid. || Intends, 9 Be laid.
And tho' his Fleece no more our Parson takes, And roast Goose dainty Food, his Table lacks, Yet he for Tythes ill-paid, gets better Land, While I am ev'ry Way o'th' lofing Hand : My Adlings * war'd, and yet my Rent to pay, My Geese, like Sufan's Faith, flown far away, My Cattle, like their Master, lank and poor, My Heart with hopeless Love to Pieces tore, And all these Sorrows came, fyne Snaith
Marsh was no more.
The BROCADED Gown and
LIN EN RA G.
IROM a fine Lady to her Maid,
A Gown descended of Brocade,
• Instant away
The Gown, contemptuous Beholder,
46 Unfit for Tinder, Lint, or Fodder,
or in this Place
To this reply'd the honest Rag,
(Tho', says Friend Horace, 'tis no Treason
At once to giggle, and to Reason)
Soon by the Mill's refining Motion,
My Virgin Purity renew,
« Then shall the Sons of Genius join
Perhaps, ev'n all-accomplish'd Gray, May grace me with a Doric Lay, « With sweet, with manly Words of Woe, - That nervously pathetic flow. • What, Mafon, may I owe to you, • Learning's first Pride, and Nature's too : « On thee she cast her sweetest Smile,
And gave thee Art's correcting file ;
Lot betide; Hear, tawdry Fool, and check thy Pride. • Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
(If haply you escape a Burning)
From Gown to Petticoat descending, • And in a Beggar's Mantle ending,
* Demofi benes.