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Μ Ο Ν D A Y;





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.

See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekert fallow-deer.
This pouch, that's ty’d with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my


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CUDDY. Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting souch ;. 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 daisie that beside her grows;
Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens sweet,
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 goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frikking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may kip with many a bound,,
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;
Rut 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 sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.

Come, Blouzelinda, cafe thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

As with Buxoma, once, I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply, she were gone,
Like worky-days, I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftfoons, O sweet-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 sily ran, and snatch'd a hafty kiss,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
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 strok’d her milky care,
I queintly stole a kiss ; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet, after, granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

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,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While the loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe prize.

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.'

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 soft mischief in her eye.

On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung,
Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung.
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And how'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.


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