Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, And myfelf pois'd against the tott'ring maid. High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell; I fpy'd-but faithful sweethearts never tell.
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou can't explain; This wily riddle puzzles every fwain:
What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the fame ?
Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.
What † flower is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis frown on graves ?
Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains, An oaken ftaff each merits for his pains.
But fee the fun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water ftand adry;
They're weary of your fongs-and so am I.
YOUNG Collin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,.
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In ev'ry wood his carols fweet were known,
At ev'ry wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the ruftic routs he threw,
The damfels pleasures with his conquefts grew;
Or when, aflant, the cudgel threats his head,
His danger fmites the breaft of every maid
But chief of Marian: Marian lov'd the fwain,
The parfon's maid, and neatest of the plain.
Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or leffen with her fieve the barley mow;
Marbled with fage the harden'd cheese fhe prefs'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confefs'd;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter, nor fage cheese, prepares:
For yearning love the witlefs maid employs,
And love, fay fwains, all bufie heed deftroys..
Collin makes mock at all her piteous fmart,
A las, that Cic'ly hight, had won his heart;
Cic'ly, the western lass, that tends the kee,
The rival of the parfon's maid was fhe.
In dreary shade now Marian lies along,
And, mix'd with fighs, thus wails in plaining fong.
Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were shorn,
Then, first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye;
My fheep were filly, but more filly I;
Beneath the fhears they felt no lafting smart;
They loft but fleeces, while I loft a heart.
Ah Collin! canft thou leave thy fweetheart true?
What I have done for thee will Cic❜ly do?
Will the thy linen wash, or hofen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own-fpun yarn?
Will the with hufwife's hand provide thy meat,
And ev'ry Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait ?
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In fervice time drew Cic'ly's eyes aside.
Where-e'er I gad I cannot hide my care,
My new difafters in my look appear.
White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known;
Our neighbours tell me oft, in joking talk,
Of afhes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wift not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Collin Clout, untoward fhepherd fwain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain.
Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night;
If in the foil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfast is my constant care.
And when, with even hand, you ftrow the grain,
I fright the thievifh rooks from off the plain.
In mifling days when I my thresher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Loft in the mufic of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the fmoaking pail :
In harvest, when the fun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought fupply;
When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have, full oft, been fun-burnt for thy fake;
When in the welkin gathering show'rs were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Collin on the green;
And when, at eve, returning with thy carr,
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far,
Strait on the fire the footy pot I plac'd;
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for hafte.
When, hungry, thou ftood'ft ftaring, like an oaf,
I flic'd the lunceon from the barley loaf,
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess:
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage lefs!
Laft Friday's eve, when, as the fun was set,
I, near yon ftile, three fallow gypfies met.
Upon my hand they cast a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they fhook;
They faid, that many croffes I must prove,
Some in my wordly gain, but most in love.
Next morn I mifs'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a fmock.
I bore these loffes with a chriftian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But fince, alas! I grew my Collin's fcorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypfies, bring him home again,
And, to a conftant lafs, give back her fwain.
Have I not fat with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry creature did in flumbers lie,
Befides our cat, my Collin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Collin move,
While I alone am kept awake by love.
Remember, Collin, when at last year's wake,
I bought the coftly present for thy fake;
Couldit thou spell o'er the pofie on thy knife,
And with another change thy ftate of life?
If thou forget'ft, I wot, I can repeat;
My memory can tell the verse so sweet.
"As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
"So is thy image on this heart of mine."
But woe is me! Such prefents luckless prove;
For knives, they tell me, always fever love.
Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,
When goody Debbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears she fought,
Then faw the cow well ferv'd, and took a groat.
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