With my sharp heel 1 three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around. 130 136 FRIDAY: OR, THE DIRGE.* BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL. BUMKINET. WHY, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem? Ver. 131.] Nescio quid certe est: et Hylax in limine latrat. Virg. * Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty or song of lamentation over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige, in the Popish hymn, Dirige gressus meos, as some pretend, but from the Teutonic Dyrke, Laudare, to praise and extol : whence it is possible their dyrke and our dirge was a laudatory song, to commemorate and applaud the dead. Cowell's Interpreter. From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, 5 10 GRUB. Ah! Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, From these sad plains all merriment is flown ; Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy cheer, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear. BUMK. Hang sorrow! let's to yonder hut repair, 16 And with trim sonnets cast away our care. And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. 20 GRUB. Yes, blithsome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my woes shall distant vallies ring; The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, For woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead. 26 BUMK. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell, my glee! No happiness is now reserv'd for me. As the wood-pigeon cooes without his mate, So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate : 30 Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell, The peerless maid that did all maids excel. Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed, And evening tears upon the grass be spread; Ver. 15.] Incipe, Mopse, prior; si quo saut Phyllidas ignes, Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri. Ver. 27.] Glee, joy; from the Dutch Glaoren, to recreate. Virg. The rolling streams with wat'ry grief shall flow, 35 40 Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our passion knew. When I direct my eyes to yonder wood, Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood: Thither I've often been the damsel's guide, 45 When rotten sticks our fuel have supplied; There I remember how her faggots large, Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge. Sometimes this crook drew hazel-boughs adown, And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown; 50 Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way, Or wallowing mid a feast of acorns lay, The' untoward creatures to the sty 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 starch'd and pinners clean. Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round, Or with the wooden lily prints the pound. Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream, And press from spongy curds the milky stream. But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more The whining swine surround the dairy door; 55 60 65 No more her care shall fill the hollow tray, When in the barn the sounding flail I ply, Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly, 70 The poultry there will seem around to stand, Waiting upon her charitable hand: No succour meet the poultry now can find, 75 Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass. I pitch'd the sheaves (oh! could I do so now) 85 Lament, ye fields! and rueful symptoms show, Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow; Let weeds instead of butterflowers appear, And meads instead of daisies hemlock bear; For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread, For Blouzelinda, blithsome maid! is dead. Lament, ye Swains! and o'er her grave bemoan, And spell, ye right this verse upon her stone; 90 'Here Blouzelinda lies--Alas, alas! Weep, shepherds!--and remember flesh is grass.' GRUB. Albeit thy songs are sweeter to my ear Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear, Ver. 84.] Pro molli viola, pro purpureo narcisso Carduus, et spinis surgit paliurus acutis. Virg. Ver. 90.] Et tumulum facite, it tumulo superaddite carmen. Ver. 93.] Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta, Virg. Virg Or winter porridge to the labouring youth, When Blouzelind expir'd, the wether's bell How shall I, void of tears, her death relate? While on her darling's bed her mother sate, 110 These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke, And of the dead let none the will revoke : 115 "Mother (quoth she) let not the poultry need; And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed; Be these my sister's care-and every morn Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn; The sickly calf that's hous'd, be sure to tend, Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend. Yet ere I die-see, Mother, yonder shelf, 120 There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf. Ver.96.] Κρεσσον Μελπομένω τευακκεμεν οι μέλι λειχειν. Thève. |