34
FIFTH PASTORAL.
Sprigg'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, 135
While dismally the parson walk'd before.
Upon her grave their rosemary they threw,
The daisie, butter-flow'r and endive blue.
After the good man warn'd us from his text,
That none could tell whose turn wou'd be the next;
He said, that heav'n wou'd take her soul no doubt,
And spoke the hour-glass in her praise ——— quite out.
To her sweet mem'ry flow'ry garlands strung,
O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung. 144
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground,
Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze,
For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm;
For gaffer Treadwell told us by the by, 151
Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.
While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,[1]
Or lasses with soft stroakings milk the cow;
While padling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or batt'ning hogs roll in the sinking mire; 160
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise,
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts, in melancholy strain,
'Till bonny Susan sped a-cross the plain;
They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd, 165
And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.
While dismally the parson walk'd before.
Upon her grave their rosemary they threw,
The daisie, butter-flow'r and endive blue.
After the good man warn'd us from his text,
That none could tell whose turn wou'd be the next;
He said, that heav'n wou'd take her soul no doubt,
And spoke the hour-glass in her praise ——— quite out.
To her sweet mem'ry flow'ry garlands strung,
O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung. 144
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground,
Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze,
For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm;
For gaffer Treadwell told us by the by, 151
Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.
While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,[1]
Or lasses with soft stroakings milk the cow;
While padling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or batt'ning hogs roll in the sinking mire; 160
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise,
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts, in melancholy strain,
'Till bonny Susan sped a-cross the plain;
They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd, 165
And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.
- ↑ Line
153. Dum juga montis Aper, fluvios dum Piscis amabit
Dumque Thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadæ,
Semper honos nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.
Virg.
SATURDAY
