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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420389" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepherd's Week : Tuesday; or, the Ditty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Marian.<br>Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,<br>Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;<br>In every wood his carrols sweet were known,<br>At every wake his nimble feats were shown.<br>When in the ring the rustic routs he threw,<br>The damsel's pleasures with his conquests grew;<br>Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,<br>His danger smites the breast of every maid;<br>But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain,<br>The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain.<br>Marian that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,<br>Or lessen, with her sieve, the barley mow;<br>Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she press'd,<br>And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd;<br>But Marian now devoid of country cares,<br>Nor yellow butter nor sage cheese prepares.<br>For yearning love the witless maid employs,<br>And love, say swains, 'all busy heed destroys.'<br>Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart,<br>A lass that Cicily hight, had won his heart,<br>The rival of the parson's maid was she.<br>In dreary shade now Marian lies along,<br>And mix'd with sighs thus wails in plaining song.<br>Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn! <br>When first by thee my younglings white were shorn,<br>Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,<br>My sheep were silly, but more silly I. <br>Beneath the sheers they felt no lasting smart,<br>They lost but fleeces while I lost a heart.<br>Ah Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart true!<br>What have I done for thee will Cicily do?<br>Will she thy linen wash or hosen darn,<br>And knit thee gloves made of her own-spun yarn?<br>Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat,<br>And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait?<br>Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,<br>In service-time drew Cicily's eyes aside.<br>Where'er I gad I cannot hide my care,<br>My new disasters in my look appear.<br>White as the curd my ruddy cheek has grown,<br>So thin my features that I'm hardly known;<br>Our neighbours tell me oft in joking talk,<br>Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;<br>Unwittingly of Marian they divine,<br>And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.<br>Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain,<br>Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I 'plain.<br>Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight<br>To moll all day, and merry-make at night.<br>If in the soil you guide the crooked share,<br>Your early breakfast is my constant care.<br>And when with even hand you strow the grain,<br>I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain.<br>In misling days when I my thresher heard,<br>With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;<br>Lost in the music of whirling flail, <br>To gaze on thee I left the smoking pail;<br>In harvest when the sun was mounted high,<br>My leathern bottle did thy drought supply;<br>Whene'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,<br>And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake;<br>When in the welkin gathering showers were seen,<br>I lagg'd, the last with Colin on the green;<br>And when at eve returning with thy car,<br>Awaiting heard the jingling bells from afar;<br>Straight on the fire the sooty pot I plac'd,<br>To warm thy broth I burn'd my hands for haste.<br>When hungry thou stood'st staring like an Oaf,<br>I slic'd the luncheon from the barley loaf,<br>With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.<br>Ah! love me more, or love thy pottage less!<br>Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set,<br>I, near yon stile, three sallow gypsies met<br>Upon my hand they cast a poring look,<br>Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook,<br>They said that many crosses I must prove,<br>Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.<br>Next morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock,<br>And off the hedge two pinners and a smock.<br>I bore these losses with a Christian mind,<br>And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.<br>But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,<br>I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.<br>Help me, ye gypsies, bring him home again,<br>And to a constant lass give back her swain.<br>Have I not sat with thee full many a night,<br>When dying embers were our only light,<br>When every creature did in slumbers lie,<br>Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I?<br>No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move,<br>While I alone am kept awake by love.<br>Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake,<br>I bought the costly present for thy sake,<br>Couldst thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife,<br>And with another change they state of life?<br>If thou forget'st, I wot, I can repeat,<br>My memory can tell the verse so sweet.<br>'As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,<br>So is thy image on this heart of mine.'<br>But wo is me! such presents luckless prove,<br>For knives, they tell me, always sever love.<br>Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,<br>When goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull.<br>With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,<br>Then saw the cow well serv'd, and took a groat.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420389" data-title="The Shepherd's Week : Tuesday; or, the Ditty de John Gay" data-description="Marian.
Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In every wood his carrols sweet were known,
At every wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the rustic routs he threw,
The damsel's ple..."></div>
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