LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLoddipole.
HY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake, No thruftles fhrill the bramble bush forfake, No chirping lark the welkin fheen invokes, No damfel yet the fwelling udder strokes ; O'er yonder hill does fcant the dawn appear, Then why does Cuddy leave his cott fo rear?
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is gueft, For, he that loves, a ftranger is to rest;
If fwains belye not, thou haft prov'd the fmart,
And Blouzelinda's miftrefs of thy heart.
This rifing rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda fmites, Buxoma me.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf: Woe worth the tongue! may blifters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithfome fwain,
The wifeft lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erft the heifer's tale to view;
When ftuck aloft, that show'rs would ftrait enfue:
He firft that ufeful fecret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When fwallows 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 fweetheart in alternate verse. ̧
I'll wager this fame oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole fhall give the prize to me.
See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin’d with hair, Made of the skin of fleekeft fallow-deer.
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue, I'll wager, that the prize fhall be my due.
Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting flouch;. Be thine the oaken ftaff, or mine the pouch..
My Blouzelinda is the blitheft lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daifie that beside her grows;
Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens fweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gilliflow'r more fair,
Than daisie, mary-gold, or king-cup rare..
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd..
Clean as young lambkins, or the goofe's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown..
The witlefs lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping fwain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,,
And my cur Tray play defteft feats around;
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near;
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.
With her, no fultry fummer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzelinda, eafe thy fwain's defire,
My fummer's fhadow, and my winter's fire!
As with Buxoma, once, I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour feem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply, fhe were gone,
Like worky-days, I wish'd would foon be done.
Eftfoons, O fweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.
As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I flily ran, and snatch'd a hafty kiss,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amifs.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.
As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftrok'd her milky care,
I queintly ftole a kifs; at firft, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet, after, granted one or two..
Lobbin, I fwear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish fwains potatoe is the chear;
Oats, for their feafts, the Scottish fhepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While fhe loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe prize.
In good roaft-beef my landlord fticks his knife, The capon fat delights his dainty wife,
Pudding our parfon eats, the 'fquire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While fhe loves white-pot, capon ne'er fhall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
As orce I play'd at Blindman's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.
I mifs'd the fwains and feiz'd on Blouzelind.
True fpeaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.'
As at Hot-cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read foft mifchief in her eye.
On two near elms the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda fwung. With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hofe.
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