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Μ Ο Ν D A Y;
THE SQU A B B L E.
LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODDIPOLE.
HY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble bush forsake, No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes, No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ; O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear, Then why does Cuddy leave his cott foʻrear?
CUDDY. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest, For, he that loves, a stranger is to relt; If swains belye not, thou haft prov'd the smart, And Blouzelinda's mistress 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 smites, Buxoma me.
LOBBIN Clour. Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half, Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall’n calt: Woe worth the tongue! may blisters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.
CUDDY. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Lest blisters fore on thy own tongue arise. Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain, The wiseft 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 erst the heifer's tale to view ; When stuck aloft, that show'rs would strait ensue : He first that useful 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 praise his fweetheart in alternate verse., I'll wager
this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole Mall give the prize to me.
CUDDY. Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting souch ;. Be thine the oaken ftaff, or mine the pouch..,
Come, Blouzelinda, cafe thy swain's desire,
LOBBIN CLOUT. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear ;
Oats, for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind,
CUDDY. In good roast beef my landlord sticks 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 the loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall 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 miss'd the Swains and seiz'd on Blouzelind. True fpeaks that ancient proverb, • Love is blind.'