He wift not when the hempen ftring I drew.
Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue;
Together faft I tye the garters twain,

And, while I knit the knot, repeat the ftrain :
"Three times a true-love's knot I tye fecure;
"Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure."
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
As I was wont, I trudg'd last market-day
To town, with new-laid eggs preferv'd in hay.
I made my market long before 'twas night;
My purfe grew heavy and my basket light.
Strait to the 'pothecary's fhop I went,
And in love-powder all my money spent;
Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers,"
When to the alehoufe Lubberkin repairs,
Thefe golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And foon the fwain with fervent love fhall glow.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

But hold, our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears, O'er yonder ftile fee Lubberkin appears.

He comes, he comes, Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor fhall fhe, crown'd with willow, die a maid.

He vows, he fwears, he'll give me a green gown ;

Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown;

FRIDAY;

FRI
RID A
DA Y;

OR,

THE DIRGE.

WHY

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.

BUMKINET.

HY, Grubbinol, doft thou fo wistful seem ?: There's forrow in thy look, if right I deem. "Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear, And chilly blafts begin to nip the year; From the tall elm a fhower of leaves is born, And their loft beauty riven beeches mourn. Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blith affords, Now the squeez'd prefs foams with our apple hoard's.. Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheary bowl, Let cyder now wash forrow from thy foul..

GRUBBINOL

Ah Bumkinet! fince thou from hence wert gone, From these fad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy chear, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMKINET..

BUMKINET.

Hang forrow! Let's to yonder hut repair,
And, with trim fonnets, caft away our care.
Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play ;
Thou fing'ft, most sweet, O'er hills and far away.
Of Patient Griffel I devife to fing,

And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring.
Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come,.
From hence we view our flocks fecurely roam.
GRUBBINOL.

Yes, blithefome lad, a tale I mean to fing,
But with my woe shall distant vallies ring,
The tale fhall make our kidlings droop their head ;
For, woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead.

BUMKINET.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewel my glee!
No happiness is now referv'd for me.

As the wood pigeon cooes without his mate,
So fhall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,
The peerless maid that did all maids excel.

Henceforth, the morn shall dewy forrow shed,
And ev❜ning tears upon the grafs be spread;
The rolling ftreams with watʼry grief shall flow,
And winds shall moan aloud-when loud they blow.
Henceforth, as oft as autumn fhall return,.

The dropping trees, whene'er it rains, fhall mourn; This feafon quite shall ftrip the country's pride; For 'twas in Autumn Blouzelinda dy'd

Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind fhall view, Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our paffion knew. When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,

Fresh rising forrow curdles in my blood. Thither I've often been the damfel's guide. When rotten flicks our fuel have supply'd; There I remember how her faggots large, Were frequently thefe happy fhoulders charge. Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown, And ftuff'd her apron wide with nuts fo brown; Or, when her feeding hogs had mifs'd their way, Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay; Th' untoward creatures to the ftye I drove, And whistled all the way- or told my love. If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie, I fhall her goodly countenance espy; For there her goodly countenance I've seen, Set off with kerchief ftarch'd and pinners clean.' Sometimes, like wax, fhe rolls the butter round, Or with the wooden lilly prints the pound. Whilom I've feen her fkim the clouted cream, And prefs from fpongy curds the milky ftream. But now, alas! thefe ears fhall hear no more The whining fwine furround the dairy door, No more her care fhall fill the hollow tray, To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey. Lament, ye fwine, in gruntings fpend your grief, For you, like me, have lost your fole relief.

When in the barn the founding flail I ply, Where, from her fieve, the chaff was wont to fly,

The

The poultry there will feem around to stand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand.

No fuccour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have loft their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley mow I pafs

Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.

I pitch'd the sheaves (oh could I do so now)
Which the in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the sweet kifs my courtship has explain'd,
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er fhall fee,
But thy memorial will revive in me.

Lament, ye fields, and rueful fymptoms show;
Henceforth, let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;
For cowflips sweet let dandelion fpread,
For Blouzelinda, blithfome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye fwains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verfe upon her stone :
"Here Blouzelinda lies-Alas, alas!
"Weep, fhepherds,-and remember flesh is grafs.

GRUBBINOL.

Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,
Than, to the thirsty cattle, rivers clear;
Or winter porridge to the lab'ring youth,
Or buns and fugar to the damfel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name fhall tune my lay;
Of her I'll fing for ever and for aye.

When