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Refound ye hills, refound my mournsul strain!
Refound ye hills, refound my mournsul lay!
Resuund, ye hills, refound my mournsul strain!
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
Refound, ye hills, resound my mournsul lay!
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,
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.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween J, my plight is guest;
• Shining or bright Iky. § Scarce, f Early. J Conceive,
Woe worth the tongue, may blisters fore it gall,
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.
See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting slouch; Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
. •. Eornlerly.
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.
Sweet is my toil when Blouxalixd is near;
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.
As Blouzalinda, in a gamesume mood,
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,
Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
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.
As once I play'd at blind-man's-bujs, it hapt
C U D D V.
As at hot cecities once I laid me down,
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.