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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 warnd 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 rotten 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 shell, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 There secretly I 've hid my worldly pell. 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 iried, 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 Ileaven 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 seal aloft were hung.

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 cattle 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'd homeward to her mother's farm, Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay,

To drink new cider mulld 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 batiening 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 viola, 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 tacite, 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 estum
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.

Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadæ,
Virg.

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

Virg.

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GRUBBINOL.

BOWZYBEUS.

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:

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 downs. Forget a while the barn and dairy's care;

Or stars he told, that shoot with shining trail, Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,

And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60 The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, With Bowzy beus' songs exalt thy verse, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. And in what climates they renew their breed, 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil

(Some think to porthern coasts their flight they tend

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 ànd 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.) 70 She feign'd her coat or garter was untied ;

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,

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,

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80 Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string ;

The lads and lasses trudge the street along, That Bowzy beus who, with fingers speed,

And all the fair is crowded in his song. Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;

The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells That Bowzy beus 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 on the rope the venturous maiden swings; And in disport surround the drunken wight. 30 · Ah, Bowzybee, 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

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood : But thou sat'st toping till the morning light."

(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 smild; 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, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. 40

(Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke

Your names shall live for ever in my song.) The sneering swains with stammering speech be. How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,

100 spoke :

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell "To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,

What woful wars in Chevy-chace befell,
As for the maids—I've something else in store."
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. 50

By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.
All in the land of Essex next he chants,

109 Of Nature's laws his carols first begun,

How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants : Why the grave owl can never face the Sun.

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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 mercedis erit.

Virg
Ver 47.
Nec tantum Phæbo 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.

Vér. 97.
Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possunt,
Nulla dies unquam memori vos exjmet ævo. 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. See his poems.

How the grave brother stood on bank so green-
Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. .

He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot. Why should I tell of Bateman, or of Shore, Or Wantley's Dragon, slain by valiant Moor, The Bower of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood ?

120 His carols ceas'd: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose ; and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The power that guards the drunk, his sleep attends, Till ruddy, like his face, the Sun descends.

When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.

That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak !)
Bodes me no good.” No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, swore, and curs'd : “ Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note."

“ Dame," quoth the Raven, “spare your oaths Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For, had you laid this britule ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the hundred With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."

FABLE.

FABLE.

TIIE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

“Why are those tears ? why droops your head ?
Is then your other husband dead ?
Or does a worse disgrace betide ?
Hath no one since his death applied ?"

“Alas! you know the cause too well ;
The salt is spilt, to me it fell;
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across ;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell :
God send my Cornish friends be well!"

“ Unhappy Widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel afliction in thy fears ;
Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert I'll read my Fable.”

Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summn'd

up the profits of her ware ;

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish sind;
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood ;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.

" Draw near, my birds! the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies; Behold the busy negro race, See millions blacken all the place! Fear not; like me, with freedom eat; An Ant is most delightful meat. How bless'd, how envied, were our life, Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife; But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days. Sometimes with oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine; From the low peasant to the lord, The Turkey smokes on every board. Sure men for gluttony are curs'd, Of the seven deadly sins the worst."

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, Thus answer'd from the neighboring beech : “ Ere you remark another's sin, Bid thy own conscience look within; Control thy more voracious bill, Nor for a breakfast nations kill."

Ver. 112
Et fortunatam, si nunquam armenta fuissent,
Pasiphaen.

Virg. Ver. 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam Nisi, &c.

Virg. Ver. 117–120. Old English ballads.

2 B 2

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-street. him with settled disgust; and he fled from the The poems of Green, which were not made pubgloom 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 comon 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 reCustom-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 steai. 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 : 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 laurel'd 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 V 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. I. 50. and FirzOSBORNE's Letters, p. 114. the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction +Gildon's Art of Poetry.

here alluded to are very fully explained.

Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum-watch, your pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day.mare, Spleen, by whose false pleas
Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magic-lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spreads life's scene,
And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears,
A stranger to the luck of heirs;
Reason, some quiet to restore,
Show'd part was substance, shadow more ;
With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I sunk not down,
But swam, till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.

I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor ;
Thy help love's confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore ;
To thee I fly, by thee dilute-
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen.

I never sick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And seldom Chloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of spirits, which I want.

Hunting I reckon very good,
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood :
But after no field-honors itch,
Achiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.
While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed,
Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,
Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,
And jovial cry, awake the Morn.
These see her from the dusky plight,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the Night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
And prove herself of Titan's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as she fies.
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,
Esulting at the hark-away,
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground,
From lungs robust field-notes resound.
Then, as St. George the dragon slew,
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view ;.
While all their spirits are on wing,
And woods, and hills, and valleys ring.

To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ;
Fling but a stone, the giant dies ;
Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen ;.
And kitten, if the humor hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.

Since mirth is good in this behalf,
At some partic'lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brisk fools, curst with half senso,
That stimulates their impotence ;
Who buzz io rhyme, and, like blind flies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes.
Poor authors worshipping a calf,
Deep tragedies that make us laugh,

A strict dissenter saying grace,
A lect'rer preaching for a place,
Folks, things prophetic to dispense,
Making the past the future tense,
The popish dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,
Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage,
Great Æsculapius on his stage,
A miser starving to be rich,
The prior of Newgate's dying speech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
Two Jews disputing tête-à-tête,
New almanacs compos'd by seers,
Experiments on felons' ears,
Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,
A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military show,
Are sov'reign for the case in view.

If spleen-fogs rise at close of day,
I clear my ev'ning with a play,
Or to some concert take my way,
The
company,

the shine of lights, The scenes of humor, music's flights, Adjust and set the soul to rights.

Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays, To others' grief attention raise : Here, while the tragic fictions glow, We borrow joy by pitying woe ; There gaily comic scenes delight, And hold true mirrors to our sight.. Virtue, in charming dress array'd, Calling the passions to her aid, When moral scenes just actions join, Takes shape, and shows her face divine.

Music has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.
When art does sound's high pow'r advance,
To music's pipe the passions dance ;
Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shown,
Tarantulated by a tune.
Many have held the soul to be
Nearly allied to harmony.
Her have I known indulging grief,
And shunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and, looking round,
Own, by neglecting sorrow's wound,
The consanguinity of sound.

In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will surely be too hard ;
Which, like those fish by sailors met,
Fly highest, while their wings are wet.
In such dull weather, so unfit
To enterprise a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for simile, deny,
I dress my face with studious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That mem'ry minds not what is read,
I sit in window dry as ark,
And on the drowning world remark:
Or to some coffee-house I stray
For news, the manna of a day,
And from the hipp'd discourses gather,
That politics go by the weather:
Then seek good-humor'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for small sums ;

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