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Refound ye hills, refound my mournsul strain!
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain:
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the sield retreat;
While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Refound ye hills, refound my mournsul lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

Resuund, ye hills, refound my mournsul strain!
Now bright Arfiurus glads the teeming grain;

Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And gratesul clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Refound, ye hills, resound my mournsul lay!
The shepherds cry, " Thy flocks are left a prey.". . ■
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep,
Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Resuund, ye hills, refound my mournsul strains s I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains. From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forfake mankind, and all the world—but love s I know thee, love! wild as the raging main, More sell than Tygers on the Libyan plain: Thou wertfrom Ætna's burning entrails torn. Got by sierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.

Resuund, ye hills, resuund my mournsul lay! Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff" shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more refound my strains!

Thus sung the shepherds, till th'approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light,

When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these Pastorals, which are written agreeably to the taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescrib'd, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called a burlesque Pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics consine the pastoral. His six Pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautisul and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rusticks. We shall insert the sirst of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in singing the praifes of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third: to determine the controversy. The perfons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lobbin Clout.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throstles shrill the bramble bum forfake i
No chirping lark the welkin sheen * invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant § the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott fo rear t i

Cuddy.

Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween J, my plight is guest;
For he that lowes, a stranger is to rest.
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouxelindas mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.

• Shining or bright Iky. § Scarce, f Early. J Conceive,

Woe worth the tongue, may blisters fore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal!

C v D D Y.

Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advife, Lest blisters sure on thy own tongue arife, Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithfome 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 arife. He taught us erst * the heiser's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue: He sirst that usef.il secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain. When swallows fleet foar high and sport in air, He told, us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praife his sweet-heart in alternate verse. I'll wager this fame oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lobbin Clout.

See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer:
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

Cuddy.

Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting slouch; Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

Lobbin Clout\

My Blouzalinda 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 gilly-flow'r of. gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair^
Than daify, marygold, .or king-cup rare.

. •. Eornlerly.

* s

Vj U D D V.

My brown Buxoma is the seatest maid, That e'er at wake delightsume gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down, And like the goldsinch in hersunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The friflcing kid delight the gaping swain; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftest * seats around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the sirst of May.

Lobbin Clout.

Sweet is my toil when Blouxalixd is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
V/ith her no sultry 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 sire!

Cuddy.

As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour leem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply she were gone, Like worky-days I wish'd would foon be done. Esesuons f. O sweet-heart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lobbin Clout.

As Blouzalinda, in a gamesume mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing slood,
I flily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kifs;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amifs.
Believe me Cuddy, while I'm bold to fay,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay,

C v D D T.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, With gentle singer stxoak'd her rjiilky care.-,,, ;i

* Nimblest. f Very soen.

I quaintly * stole a kifs; at sirst, '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.

Lobbin Clout.

Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish iwains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their seasts the Scottsh shepherds grind,
Sweet turneps are the food of Blouxalind:
While she loves turneps, butter I'll despife,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

C u D D Y.

In good roast-beef my land-lord sticks his knife, The capon fat, delights his dainty wise; Pudding our parfon 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.

Lobbin Clout.

As once I play'd at blind-man's-bujs, it hapt
About my eyes, the towel thick was wrapt:
I mifs'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouxelind,
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

C U D D V.

As at hot cecities once I laid me down,
And selt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick role, and read suft mifchief in her eye.

Lobbin Clout.

On two near elms, the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung: With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, And show'd her taper leg, and scartlet hose.

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