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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420385" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepherd's Week : Friday; or, The Dirge</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bumkinet, Grubbinol</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Bumkinet.<br>Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem?<br>There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.<br>'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,<br>And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;<br>From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne<br>And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.<br>Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords,<br>Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards.<br>Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl,<br>Let cyder new wash sorrow from my soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grubbinol.<br>Ah Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone,<br>From these sad plains all merriment is flown;<br>Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer,<br>And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bumkinet.<br>Hang sorrow! let's to yonder hut repair,<br>And with trim sonnets cast away our care,<br>Gilliam of Croydon well thy pipe can play,<br>Thou sing'st most sweet, O'er hills and far away,<br>Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,<br>And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring.<br>Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter come,<br>From hence we view our flocks securely roam.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grubbinol.<br>Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,<br>But with my wo shall distant valleys ring.<br>The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,<br>For wo is me! - our Blouzelind is dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bumkinet.<br>It Blouzelinda dead? Farewell my glee!<br>No happiness is now reserv'd for me.<br>As the wood-pigeon cooes without his mate,<br>So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.<br>Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,<br>The peerless maid that did all maids excel.<br>Hence forth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,<br>And evening tears upon the grass be spread;<br>The rolling streams with watery grief shall flow,<br>And winds shall moan aloud - when loud they blow,<br>Henceforth, as oft as autumn shall return,<br>The dropping trees, whene'er it rains shall mourn;<br>This season quite shall strip the country's pride,<br>For 'twas in autumn Blouzelinda died.<br>Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view,<br>Woods, dairy, barn and mows our passion knew.<br>When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,<br>Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.<br>Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,<br>When rotten sticks our fuel have supply'd;<br>There I remember how her faggots large,<br>Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge.<br>Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown,<br>And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown;<br>Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,<br>Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;<br>The untoward creatures to the stye I drove,<br>And whistled all the way - or told my love.<br>If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,<br>I shall her goodly countenance espy,<br>For there her goodly countenance I've seen,<br>Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean.<br>Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, <br>Or with the wooden lily prints the pound.<br>Whilome I've seen her skim the clouted cream,<br>And press from spungy curds the milky stream,<br>But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more<br>The whining swine surround the dairy door,<br>No more her care shall fill the hollow tray,<br>To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.<br>Lament, ye swine, in gruntings spend your grief,<br>For you, like me, have lost your sole relief.<br>When in the barn the sounding flail I ply,<br>Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly,<br>The poultry there will seem around to stand,<br>Waiting upon her charitable hand.<br>No succour meet the poultry now can find,<br>For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind.<br>Whenever by yon barley mow I pass,<br>Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.<br>I pitch'd the sheaves (oh could I do so now)<br>Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.<br>There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,<br>There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd.<br>Ah Blouzelind! that now I ne'er shall see,<br>But thy memorial will revive in me.<br>Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show,<br>Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;<br>Let weeds instead of butter-flowers appear,<br>And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;<br>For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread,<br>For Blouzelinda, blithesome maid, is dead!<br>Lament, ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan,<br>And spell ye right this verse upon her stone,<br>'Here Blouzelinda lies - Alas, alas!<br>Weep shepherds - and remember flesh is grass.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grubbinol.<br>Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,<br>Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear;<br>Or winter porridge to the labouring youth,<br>Or bunns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;<br>Yet Blouzelind's name shall tune my lay,<br>Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.<br>When Blouzelind expir'd, the weather's bell<br>Before the drooping flock told forth her knell;<br>The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she died,<br>And shrilling crickets in the chimney cried;<br>The boding raven on her cottage sate,<br>And with hoarse croacking warn'd us of her fate;<br>The lambkins, which her wonted tendance bred,<br>Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead;<br>Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spy'd,<br>Which erst I saw when goody Dobson died.<br>How shall I, void of tears, her death relate,<br>While on her dearling's bed her mother sate!<br>These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke,<br>And 'of the dead let none the will revoke.'<br>Mother, quoth she, let not the poultry need,<br>And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed,<br>Be these my sister's care - and every morn<br>Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn; <br>The sickly calf that's hous'd be sure to tend,<br>Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.<br>Yet ere I die - see, mother, yonder shelf,<br>There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf.<br>Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid,<br>Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid.<br>The rest is yours - my spinning-wheel and rake,<br>Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake;<br>My new straw-hat that's trimly lin'd with green,<br>Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean.<br>My leathern bottle, long in harvests try'd,<br>Be Grubbinol's - this silver ring beside:<br>Three silver pennies, and a ninepence bent,<br>A token kind, to Bumkinet is sent.<br>Thus spoke the maiden, while her mother cried,<br>And peaceful, like the harmless lamb she died.<br>To show their love, the neighbours far and near,<br>Followed with wistful look the damsel's bier.<br>Sprigg'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore,<br>While dismally the parson walk'd before.<br>Upon her grave the rosemary they threw,<br>The daisy, butter-flower, and endive blue.<br>After the good man warn'd us from his text,<br>That none could tell whose turn would be the next;<br>He said, that heaven would take her soul, no doubt,<br>And spoke the hour-glass in her praise - quite out.<br>To her sweet memory flowery garlands strung,<br>O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung.<br>With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,<br>To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground,<br>Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze,<br>For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.<br>Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,<br>To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm.<br>For gaffer Tread-well told us by the by,<br>'Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.'<br>While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,<br>Or lasses with soft stroakings milk the cow,<br>While pudling ducks the standing lake desire,<br>Or battening hogs roll in the sinking mire;<br>Whole moles the crumbling earth in hillocks raise,<br>So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.<br>Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,<br>'Till bonny Susan sped across the plain;<br>They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd,<br>And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid,<br>In ale and kisses they forget their cares,<br>And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Gay">John Gay</a><div class=q>
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Bumkinet.
Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem?
There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a shower of leaves is b..."></div>
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