MONDAY, OR, THE SQUABBLELest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;He first that useful secret did explain,That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,He told us that the welkin would be clear.Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
LOBBIN CLOUTMade of the skin of sleekest fallow deer.This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.
CUDDYBe thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
LOBBIN CLOUTThan primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,Fair is the daisy that beside her grows,Fair is the gillyflow'r, of gardens sweet,Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.But Blouzelind's than gillyflow'r more fair,Than daisy, marigold, or king-cup rare.
CUDDYThat e'er at Wake delightsome gambol play'd.Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;But neither lamb nor kid, nor calf nor Tray,Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
LOBBIN CLOUTOf her bereft 'tis winter all the year.With her no sultry summer's heat I know;In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!
CUDDYEv'n noon-tide labour seem'd a holiday;And holidays, if haply she were gone,Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.Eftsoons, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay,And all the year shall then be holiday.
LOBBIN CLOUTBehind a haycock loudly laughing stood,I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss,She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.
CUDDYWith gentle finger strok'd her milky care,I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
LOBBIN CLOUTOf Irish swains potato is the cheer;Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind,Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,Nor leeks nor oatmeal nor potato prize.
CUDDYThe capon fat delights his dainty wife,Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
....
CLODDIPOLEAn oaken staff each merits for his pains.But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,And gild the thatch of goodman Hodges' barn.Your herds for want of water stand adry,They're weary of your songs--and so am I.
