The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison

It happen'd once upon a Summer's Day,
When Lads and Lasses go to making Hay;
The weary Mowers laid themselves adown,
To take a Bottle, and a Nap at Noon;
When Bootyslub (for so was call'd the Swain,
That languish'd under Dorothy's Disdain)
While others slept, by Love was kept awake,
To mourn his Fate, and mend his Dolly's Rake.

Dolt as I am (complains the Love-sick Lout)
Not to consider what I am about?

Here I employ my little Stock of Art,
But who, alas! shall mend my broken Heart?
None can that Work perform but Dorothy,
And that will ne'er be done by Cruelty;
For still she persecutes me with Disdain,
Laughs at my Woes, and banters all my Pain.

Ah, Dolly! Dolly! can you be so dull,
To leave your Lover for a foppish Fool?
A Butterfly the Cabbages destroys,
On you a Butterfly his Breath employs—
I say no more—My Meaning you may guess—
Perhaps you had been pleas'd, had I said less.

But yet, there was a Time, or else I dream'd,
When Bootyslub in your good Graces seem'd;
Then, if you knew I kiss'd a Lass at Town,
How have I seen you pout, and fret, and frown?
Nay, once you told me, that I need not roam,
For Charity should still begin at Home.

These jealous Hints, or I mistake them, prove
The greatest and the surest Signs of Love;
Yet, if you lov'd, methinks you cou'd not be
So kind to Floripert, so cross to me.

Remember, how, to Jealousy betray'd,
You scolded at the Parson's pretty Maid;
When with enquiring Looks you pass'd the House,
And catch'd me keeping up the Damsels Cows;
Your scornful Eyes with jealous Fury burn'd,
On her they glanc'd, and then on me they turn'd;
I took the Hint, and fear'd what might ensue,
So stooping, seem'd to buckle up my Shoe,
Then left the Lass, and sneak'd away to you.
Alas! alas! that I your Love believ'd!
I lov'd, and in my Turn am thus deceiv'd.
Nor dare I of my cruel Fate complain,
Or, if I do, alas! 'tis all in vain.

For ever curst be that detested Day,
When from the last May-Fair we took our Way,
Remember how you forg'd a false Excuse
Your easy-natur'd Lover to abuse.
No fondling Father call'd you back again,
A better Reason! 'twas your fondling Swain;
And if I meet him e'er alone, I vow,
I'll surely beat the Puppy black and blue.
I mark'd the watchful Coxcomb all the Day,
And kept him from his meditated Prey;
Invited him to exercise the Ball,
And bravely give, or bravely ward a Fall:
So should we both our pleading Merits show,
And you, tho' blind, the Difference might know:
But all I urg'd, I urg'd, alas! in vain,
Nor would he Glory give, nor could he gain.

Ah, Dolly! Dolly! where were all your Vows,
When Cheese-Cakes lur'd you to the Tavern-House;
Your Vows were as your Cheese-cakes sweet, yet weak!
And can you both alike together break?
But if you do so—You, with equal Ease,
Can make new Vows, and Cheese-cakes, when you please.

And could you then your Bootyslub forget,
And in another's Lap so kindly sit?
Around his Neck your fondling Arms you flung,
And learn'd the silly Catches which he sung.
Whilst unconcern'd at Home you hear me sing,
Or tunefully torment the rosin'd String;
Your Favour every Way I try to gain,
But dance, or fiddle; sing, or pipe; in vain.

Oh! learn at last a Flatterer to hate,
And think on Susan Silly's cruel Fate:
Her Pride poor honest Hobbinol despis'd,
And vainly Tommy Taudry's Folly priz'd.
But now, too late she sees herself undone,
Her Portion squander'd, and her Honour gone—
What better canst thou hope from such a Flame,
But Love refuses what my Rage would name.

How chang'd is Dolly now, from what she was
When first—Ah, had I never spy'd the Lass!
The very Time I perfectly can tell,
For Love remembers every Thing too well!

Sure, I can ne'er forget the Sunday Morn,
Tho' from her Mem'ry so soon 'tis worn:
A goodly Bible in my Hand I took,
And very gravely thought to read my Book;

When thro' the Window, by a luckless Chance,
Heedless, I cast a customary Glance;
'Twas there I saw the pretty Dolly walk,
Fair, and upright as Roses on their Stalk:
So trimly was the tidy Damsel dress'd.
That, Spite of all the Flow'rs, she seem'd the best.
Sometimes to smell a pretty Rose she stop'd,
Pleas'd with the Smell, the pretty Rose she crop'd;
Then in her snowy Breast the Fav'rite plac'd,
Her sweeter Breast the blushing Fav'rite grac'd;
But then! how did I wish myself between
Her swelling Bosom, and the Flow'r, unseen?
But as I wish'd, I found a pleasing Smart,
I know not how, begin to melt my Heart:
Nay, all my Limbs with such a Shiv'ring shook,
That I the Chillness for an Ague took.
Ah, had it been one, I had felt less Harm,
For I can cure an Ague with a Charm!
Now, all my Spells and Charms but Trifles prove,
Far stronger are the magic Charms of Love.

But when I found she smil'd to see me look,
I pleas'd as well, soon laid aside my Book.
And, boldly blithsome, to the Garden went,
Where she, as well as I, knew what I meant;
Yet seemingly my searching Sight to shun,
Behind an Apple-Tree the Gipsy run;
But soon I found the amorous Deceit,
And forc'd a Kiss, to reconcile the Cheat.
But forc'd it so, that when she seem'd to strive
To keep it most, the more she seem'd to give.
Remember then, my lovely faithless Maid,
What Oaths, what Vows, what Promises, you made;
Think for your own, if not your Lover's Sake,
How bad it is a binding Oath to break.

But while I thus these silly Tales repeat,
I find my self already in a Sweat:

What shall I do, too well she knows my Love,
And her Coy Coldness does the Scorner prove.

Well then—When Shadows length'ning o'er the Vale,
Call forth the Milk-maid, with her cleanly Pail,
To my old Sweet-heart Cicely will I go,
And more than all my former Kindness show;
Conduct the Girl along the crouded Mead,
And to teaze Dolly, thro' the Pasture lead;
Perhaps I'll whisper out some secret Place,
And kiss her too before her jealous Face;
Then let her Rival cry, and frown, and fret,
And in my Cruelty her own forget.
Then let her be as much, or more afraid
Of Cicely, than she was the Parson's Maid.
So shall my Scorn, and counterfeit Disdain
Revive her Love, if any Love remain.

Sid. Coll. April 5th 1725.

University of Virginia Library

THE Jealous SHEPHERD; A PASTORAL.