FRIDAY;

OR,

THE DIRGE.

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.

BUMKINET.

7HY, Grubbinol, doft thou fo wiftful feem?

WHY

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 feafon pleafance blith affords,

Now the fqueez'd prefs foams with our apple hoards..
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheary bowl,
Let cyder now wash sorrow 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.

BUMKINEE.

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 reserv'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 fhall dewy forrow fled, And ev'ning tears upon the grafs be spread; The rolling streams with wat❜ry grief shall flow, And winds fhall moan aloud-when loud they blow. Henceforth, as oft as autumn fhall return,,

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

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

Fresh rifing 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 stuff'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 shall her goodly countenance espy; For there her goodly countenance I've seen, Set off with kerchief ftarch'd and pinners clean. Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, Or with the wooden lilly prints the pound. Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, And prefs from spongy curds the milky stream, 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 spend your grief, For you, like me, have loft 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 pass

Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.

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

Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show;
Henceforth, let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, inftead of daifies, hemlock bear;
For cowflips fweet let dandelion spread,
For Blouzelinda, blithfome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye fwains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verse upon her stone :
"Here Blouzelinda lies-Alas, alas!

Weep, fhepherds,-and remember flesh is grafs.

GRUBBINOL.

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

When

When Blouzelind expir'd, the weather's bell
Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell!
The folemn death-watch click'd the hour she dy'd,
And chilling crickets in the chimney cry'd;
The boding raven on her cottage fate,

And, with hoarfe croaking, warn'd us of her fate
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains, that fatal inftant, dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spy'd,
Which erft I faw when goody Dobson dy'd,

How fhall I, void of tears, her death relate,.
While on her darling's bed her mother fate;
These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke ;
And of the dead let none the will revoke.

"Mother," quoth fhe, "let not the poultry need,,
And give the goofe wherewith to raise her breed;
Be these my fifter's care-and, ev'ry morn,
Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn;
The fickly calf, that's hous'd, be sure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend..
Yet, e're I die-See, mother, yonder shelf,

There fecretly I've hid my worldly pelf.

Twenty good fhillings in a rag I laid;

Be ten the parfon's, for my fermon, paid.

The reft is your's-my fpinning-wheel and rake,
Let Sufan keep for her dear fifter's fake;

My new ftraw hat, that's trimly lin❜d with green,,
Let Peggy wear; for fhe's a damfel clean.
My leathern bottle, long in harvests try'd,
Be Grubbinol's-this filver ring befide:..

Three