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Resound ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies ;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat ;
While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Refound ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs :
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away ;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain !
Now bright Areturus glads the teeming grain ;

Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters (well with foods of wine ;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove :
Just Gods! Mall all things yield returns but love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, “ Thy flocks are left a prey."
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep,
Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?

eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move ? And is there magic but what dwells in love ?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains !
I'll fly from thepherds, Alocks, and flow'ry plains.
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world--but love!
I know thee, love ! wild as the raging main,
More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain :
Thou wert from Ærna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born,

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains.
No more, ye hills, no more resound


trains ! Thus sung the shepherds, till th’approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light,

When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low

sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these Pastorals, which are written agreeably to the taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescrib'd, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called a burlesque Paftoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and de. scribed the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His fix Paftorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rusticks. We shall insert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in singing the praises of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throttles Thrill the bramble bush forsake ;
No chirping lark the welkin sheen *invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear ;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott fo reart?


Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween I, my plight is guest;
For he that loves, a franger is to reft.
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the fmart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree ;
Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall’n calf.

* Shining or bright sky.

§ Scarce,

+ Early.


Woe worth the tongue, may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal !

CUDDY. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Lest blisters fore on thy own tongue arise, Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blith some swain, The wisest lout of all the neighb’ring 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 fuck aloft, that show'rs would straight enfue : He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain. When swallows feet 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 sweet-heart 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 fleekeft fallow deer :
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue,
I'll wager, that the prize thall be my due.

Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting slouch ;
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.


My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweetër, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king.cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows ;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet :
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.


My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That'e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd ;
Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her funday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The friking kid delight the gaping swain ;
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play defteft * feats around:
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Sweet is my toil when Bloucalird is near ;
Of 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, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply fhe were gone,
Like worky-days I with'd would loon be done.
Eftfoons t, o sweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay.cock loudly laughing food,
I Nily ran, and snatch'd a hafty 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.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftroak'd her milky care.


* Nimbleft.

+ Very soon.

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.


Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer ;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turneps are the food of Blouzalind:
While she loves turneps, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

In good roaft-beef my land-lord sticks his knife,
The capon fat, delights his dainty wife ;
Pudding our parson eats, the 'fquire loves hare,
But white-pot thick, is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-por, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

As once I play'd at blind-man’s-buff, it hapt
About my eyes, the towel thick was wrapt:
I miss’d the fwains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind,
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

As at bot.cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown ;
Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick role, and read soft mischief in her eye.

On two near elms, the Nacken'd cord I hung,
Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung :
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg, and scartlet hose.


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