These are Mr. Gay's principal performance. They were originally intended,. I fuppofe, as a burlefque on thofe of Philips; but, perhaps without defigning it, he has hit the true spirit of paftoral poetry. In fact, he more refembles Theocritus. than any other English paftoral writer whatfoever. There runs through the whole a strain of ruftic pleasantry which fhould ever distinguish this fpecies of compofition; but how far the antiquated expreffions used here may contribute to the humour,, I will not determine; for my own part, I could wish the fimplicity were preserved, without recurring to fuch obfolete antiquity for the manner of expreffing it.
LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODDIPOLE.
HY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake, No thruftles fhrill the bramble bufh forfake, No chirping lark the welkin fheen invokes, No damfel yet the fwelling udder strokes ; O'er yonder hill does fcant the dawn appear, Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear ?
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is gueft, For, he that loves, a ftranger is to rest;
If fwains 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 fmites, Buxoma me.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf : Woe worth the tongue! may blifters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal.
Hold, witlefs Lobbin Clout, I thee advife,
Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arife.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain,
The wifeft lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arife.
He taught us erft the heifer's tale to view;
When fuck aloft, that show'rs would ftrait enfue:
He first that useful fecret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When fwallows 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 fame oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of fleekest fallow-deer.
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue, I'll wager, that the prize fhall be my due.
NG Collin Clout, a lad of peerless meed, Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed In ev'ry wood his carols sweet 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 conquests grew;
Or when, aflant, the cudgel threats his head,
His danger fmites the breast of every maid;
But chief of Marian: Marian lov'd the swain,
The parfon's maid, and neatest of the plain.
Marian, that foft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or leffen with her fieve the barley mow;
Marbled with fage the harden'd cheese she 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 smart,
A las, that Cic'ly hight, had won his heart;
Cic❜ly, the western lass, that tends the kee,
The rival of the parson's maid was she.
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 firft by thee my younglings white were fhorn,
Then, firft, I ween, I cast a lover's eye;
My sheep were filly, but more filly I;
Beneath the fhears they felt no lafting fmart;
They loft but fleeces, while I lost 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 kerfey doublet spreading wide,
In fervice time drew Cic'ly's eyes afide.
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 wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Collin Clout, untoward fhepherd swain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain.
Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night;
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