1

BUMKINET

GRUBBINOL.

BUMKINET.

6

This pippin shall another trial make,

From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, See from the core two kernels brown I take; 100 And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn. This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn; Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords, And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne.

Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards. But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl, A certain token that his love's unsound;

Let cider new “wash sorrow from thy soul." 10 While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last; Oh, were his lips to mine but join'd so fast !

GRUBBINOL. • With my sharp heel I three times mark the

Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, ground,

From these sad plains all merriment is flown;
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer,
“As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee. 110
He wist not when the hempen string I drew,
Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue.
Together fast I tie the garters twain ;

“ Hang sorrow!" Let's to yonder hut repair, And while I knit the knot repeat this strain : And with trim sonnets “cast away our care." • Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure, “ Gillian of Croydon” well thy pipe can play: Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure?" Thou sing'st most sweet, “O'er hills and far away." "With my sharp heel I three times mark the Of “ Patient Grissel" I devise to sing, ground,

And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring. 20 And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come;

From hence we view our flocks securely roam.
As I was wont, I trudg’d last market-day
To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay, 120
I made my market long before 'twas night,
My purse grew heavy, and my basket light.

Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,

But with my woe shall distant valleys ring. And in love-powder all my money spent.

The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers, For, wo is me-our Blouzelind is dead! When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell, my glee! • With my sharp heel I three times mark the No happiness is now reserv'd for me. ground,

As the wood-pigeon cooes without his mate, And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 130 So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate. 30 “But hold our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell, ears,

The peerless maid that did all maids excel. O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
He comes ! he comes! Hobnelia 's not bewray'd, And evening tears upon the grass be spread ;
Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid. The rolling streams with watery grief shall flow,
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown: And winds shall moan aloud-when loud they blow.
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!"

Henceforth, as oft as Autumn shall return,
The drooping trees, whene'er it rains, shall mourn;

The season quite shall strip the country's pride,
FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGE.*
For 'twas in Autumn Blouzelinda died.

40 Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, Bumkinet, Grubbinol.

Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our passion knew,
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,

Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.
Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem ?

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide, There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.

When rotten sticks our fuel have supplied'; 'Tis true yon oaks with yellow tops appear,

There I remember how her fagots large
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;

Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel-boughs adown,
And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown; 50

Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,
Ver. 109.

Or wallowing ʼmid a feast of acorns lay;
Necte tribus nodis ternos, Amarylli, colores:
Necte, Amarylli, modo ; et Veneris dic vincula necto.

Virg.
Ver. 123.

dirige in the popish hymn, dirige gressus meos, as some Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena

pretend; but from the Teutonic dyrke, laudare, to praise Ipse dedit Mæris.

Virg.

and extol. Whence it is possible their dyrke, and our Ver. 127.-IIordv kakòv aüplov olow. Theoc.

dirge, was a laudatory song to commemorate and appland the dead.

Cowell's Interpreter. Ver. 131.

Ver. 15. Nescio quid certe est; et Hylax in limine latrat.

Virg.

Incipe, Mopse, prior, si quos aut Phyllidis ignes * Dirge, or dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamenta. Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri.

Virg. tion, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Ver. 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch glooren, to recreate.

BUMKINET.

66

Th' untoward creatures to the sty I drove, The boding raven on her cottage sate,
And whistled all the way-or told my love. And with hoarse croaking warn'd us of her fate;

If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie, The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred, I shall her goodly countenance espy;

Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead; For there her goodly countenance I've seen, Swarm'd on a retten stick the bees I spied, Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean; Which erst I saw when Goody Dobson died. Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, How shall I, void of tears, her death relate, Or with the wooden lily prints the pound. 60 When on her darling's bed her mother sate ! 110 Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke, And press from spungy curds the milky stream: And of the dead let none the will revoke : But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more • Mother,” quoth she, “let not the poultry need, The whining swine surround the dairy door; And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed : No more her care shall fill the hollow tray, Be these my sister's care—and every morn To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey. Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn; Lament, ye swine, in grunting spend your grief, The sickly calf that's hous'd be sure to tend, For you, like me, have lost your sole relief. Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply, Yet ere I die-see, mother, yonder shelf, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf. 120 The poultry there will seem around to stand, Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid ; Waiting upon her charitable hand.

Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid. No succor meet the poultry now can find, The rest is yours—my spinning-wheel and rake For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind. Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake; Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,

My new straw hat, that's trimly lin'd with green, Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.

Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean. I pitch'd the sheaves, (oh, could I do so now!) My leathern bottle, long in harvests tried, Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.

Be Grubbinol's—this silver ring beside : There every deale my heart by love was gain'd, Three silver pennies, and a nine-pence bent, There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain’d. 80 A token kind to Bumkinet is sent."

130 Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see,

Thus spoke the maiden, while the mother cried ; But thy memorial will revive in me.

And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she died. Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show;

To show their love, the neighbors far and near Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;

Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier. Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear, Sprig'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear; While dismally the parson walk'd before. For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread ; Upon her grave the rosemary they threw, For Blouzelinda, blithesome maid, is dead! The daisy, butter-flower, and endive blue. Lament, ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan, After the good man warn'd us from his text, 139 And spell ye right this verse upon her stone: 90 That none could tell whose turn would be the next; “ Here Blouzelinda lies—Alas, alas!

He said, that Heaven would take her soul, no Weep, shepherds—and remember flesh is grass."

doubt, And spoke the hour-glass in her praise—quite out.

To her sweet memory, flowery garlands strung,

O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung.
GRUBBINOL.

With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around, Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,

To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground; Than to the thirsty catile rivers clear;

Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze, Or winter porridge to the laboring youth,

For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze. Or buns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;

Now we trudg'a homeward to her mother's farm, Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay,

To drink new cider mull’d with ginger warm. 150 Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

For Gaffer Treadwell told us, by the by, When Blouzelind expir'd, the wether's bell

* Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry." Before the drooping flock toll’d forth her knell; 100

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she died, Or lasses with soft strokings milk the cow;
And shrilling crickets in the chimney cried !

While paddling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or battening hogs roll in the sinking mire ;

While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise ; Ver. 84.

So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise. Pro molli violă, pro purpureo narcisso,

Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain, Carduus et spinis surgit paliurus acutis.

Till bonny Susan sped across the plain. 160

Virg. They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd, Ver. 90.

And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid ; Et tumulum facite, et tumulo superaddite carmen. In ale and kisses they forget their cares,

Virg. And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs,
Ver. 93.
Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta,
Quale sopor fessis in gramine; quale per æstum
Dulcis aquæ saliente sitim restinguere rivo.

Ver. 153.
Nos tamen hæc quocunque modo tibi nostra vicissim, Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,
Dicemus, Daphninque tuum tollemus ad astra.

Durnque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadæ,
Virg.

Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.
Ver. 96. An imitation of Theocritus.

Virg

For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS. And only sing and seek their prey by night.

How turnips hide their swelling heads below: BOWZYBEUS.

And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ;

How Will-o-wisp misleads night-faring clowns

O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless dou ns. Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care;

Of stars he told, that shoot with shining trail, Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60 With Bowzy beus' songs exalt thy verse,

He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. And in what climates they renew their breed,

(Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend, "Twas in the season when the reapers' toil

Or to the Moon in midnight hours ascend); Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ;

Where swallows in the Winter's season keep, Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10 And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; The lads, with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow, Till the bright Sun has nine times set and rose;

How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close Cut down the labors of the winter plow.

(For huntsmen by their long experience find, To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,

That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.) TO She feign'd her coat or garter was untied ; Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,

For still new fairs before his eyes arose. And merry reapers what they list will ween.

How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill,

The various fairings of the country maid. That Echo answer'd from the distant hill;

Long silken laces hang upon the twine, The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid, Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd. 20 How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies,

And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine ; When fast asleep they Bowzy beus spied,

And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside ;

Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
That Bowzy beus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string ;

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80

The lads and lasses trudge the street along, That Bowzy beus who, with fingers speed, Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells

And all the fair is crowded in his song. That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue,

His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; Ballads and roundelays and catches sung :

Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs. They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright, And in disport surround the drunken wight.

And on the rope the venturous maiden swings;

30 * Ah, Bowzy bee, why didst thou stay so long ?

Jack Pudding in his party-color'd jacket The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,

Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. strong! Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night;

of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats. 90 But thou sat'st toping till the morning light.”

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood :

(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood !) Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,

How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout: (For custom says, “ Whoe'er this venture proves,

And fearless at the glittering falchion stil'd ; For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.")

Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found,

And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around. By her example Dorcas bolder grows,

(Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, And plays a tickling straw within his nose.

40

Your names shall live for ever in my song.)
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke
The sneering swains with stammering speech be-

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife, spoke :

How the sly sailor made the maid a wise. 100

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell “To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er, As for the maids—I've something else in store."

What woful wars in Chevy-chace befell, No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,

When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn, But lads and lasses round about him throng.

Wars to be wept by children yet unborn! Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd

Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd.

If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound ! Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud ; Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,

Yet shall the 'squire, who fought on bloody stumps, Like Bowzy beus soothes th' attentive ear.

By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

50 Of Nature's laws his carols first begun,

All in the land of Essex next he chants, 109 Why the grave owl can never face the Sun.

How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants :

Ver. 22.
Serta procul tantum capiti delapsa jacebant. Virg.

Ver. 40.
Sanguineis frontem moris et tempora pingit. Virg.

Ver. 43.
Carmina, quæ vultis, cognoscite! carmina vobis;
Huic aliud inercedis erit.

Virg
Ver 47.
Nec tantum Phobo gaudet Parnassia rupes:
Nec tantum Rhodope mirantur et Ismarus Orphea.

Virg.

Ver. 51. Our swain had possibly read Tusser, from
whence he might have collected these philosophical ob-
servations:
Namque canebat, uti magnum per inane coacta, &c.

Ver. 97.
Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possunt,
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet tvo. Virg.

Ver. 99. A song in the comedy of Love for Love, be
ginning "A soldier and a sailor," &c.
Ver. 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's.

Sre his poems

MATTHEW GREEN.

Matthew GREEN, a truly original poet, was born, is further attested, that he was a man of great probably at London, in 1696. His parents were re- probity and sweetness of disposition, and that his spectable Dissenters, who brought him up within conversation abounded with wit, but of the most inthe limits of the sect. His learning was confined to offensive kind. He seems to have been subject to a little Latin; but, from the frequency of his clas- low-spirits, as a relief from which he composed his sical allusions, it may be concluded that what he principal poem, “ The Spleen." He passed his read when young, he did not forget. The austerity life in celibacy, and died in 1737, at the early age in which he was educated had the effect of inspiring of forty-one, in lodgings in Gracechurch-streel. him with settled disgust; and he fled from the The poems of Green, which were not made pobgloom of dissenting worship when he was no longer lic till after his death, consist of “ The Spleen;" compelled to attend it. Thus set loose from the “ The Grotto;" “ Verses on Barclay's Apology;" opinions of his youth, he speculated very freely " The Seeker," and some smaller pieces, all coon religious topics, and at length adopted the sys- prised in a small volume. In manner and subject tem of outward compliance with established forms, they are some of the most original in our language. and inward laxity of belief. He seems at one They rank among the easy and familiar, but are time to have been much inclined to the principles replete with uncommon thoughts, new and striking of Quakerism; but he found that its practice would images, and those associations of remote ideas by not agree with one who lived “by pulling off the some unexpected similitudes, in which wit prinhat." We find that he had obtained a place in the cipally consists. Few poems will bear more re Custom-house, the duties of which he is said to have peated perusals ; and, with those who can fully enter discharged with great diligence and fidelity. It into them, they do not fail to become favorites

School-helps I want, to climb on high,
THE SPLEEN.*

Where all the ancient treasures lie,

And there unseen commit a theft
AN EPISTLE TO MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON. On wealth in Greek exchequers left.

Then where? from whom? what can I steal, This motley piece to you I send,

Who only with the moderns deal ? Who always were a faithful friend ;

This were attempting to put on Who, if disputes should happen hence,

Raiment from naked bodies won it Can best explain the author's sense ;

They safely sing before a thief, And, anxious for the public weal,

They cannot give who want relief; Do, what I sing, so often feel.

Some few excepted, names well known, The want of method pray excuse,

And justly laureld with renown, Allowing for a vapor'd Muse :

Whose stamps of genius mark their ware, Nor to a narrow path confin'd,

And theft detects: of theft beware ; Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

From More TM so lash'd, example fit, The child is genuine, you may trace

Shun petty larceny in wit.
Throughout the sire's transmitted face.

First know, my friend, I do not mean
Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean, To write a treatise on the spleen;
Draws from the spring she finds within ;
Nor vainly buys what Gildont sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

† A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won. *“ In this poem,” Mr. Melmoth says, " there are more

HOWARD's British Princes original thoughts thrown together than he had ever read in the same compass of lines."

$ James More Smith, Esq. See Dunciad, B. ii. 1. 50. and FirzoSDOR NE's Letters, p. 114. the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction Gildon's Art of Poetry.

here alluded to are very fully explained.