Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sun just peeping o'er the hills was seen,
The Birds all caroll'd, and the Air was sheen;
Garlands, of Daffodils and Tulips made,
With Cowslips, gather'd from the unforc'd glade,
O'er ev'ry cottage door, in trim so gay,
Spoke a glad welcome to the wish'd-for May:
Dight in their gayest cloaths, each Shepherd Swain
And Village Nymph trip'd o'er the green-swerd plain;
While Cupid made such havock among hearts,
His full-stor'd quiver scarce supply'd him darts:
In ev'ry breast Joy revell'd this glad morn,
Save Deborah's;—She, hapless maid, forlorn,
With eyes brimful, beneath a Yew reclin'd
Sat,—dulling with her sighs the passing wind;
When Margery, light tripping o'er the grass,
Stop'd short; and (wond'ring) thus accosts the Lass.

Margery.
Am I awake? Is't Deborah I see
With blubber'd cheeks?—Quite lost her wonted glee?
What, Deb?—That erst so frolicksome was seen,
The blithest maid that danc'd upon the green!
Up, up, for shame, nor longer dowley fret,
Around the pole the Lads and Girls are met;
Blind Giles his fiddle scrapes in notes so sweet,
You'd think, for sure, he witch'd their puppet feet:
Have you forgot this is the First of May?
When dight in their new robes the fields look gay:

102

On ev'ry hedge the scented Blossoms spring,
The Birds their sweetest Carols joyous sing;
The Cuckow, dumb 'till now, this Morn essays
In mellow notes his summer song to raise;
Up, up, for shame, and to the sports repair,
Our Sweethearts both, believe me, Girl, are there:
Whence comes this change?—What sad misfortune, say,
Can cause those tears, and looks of wild dismay?

Deborah.
Ah, hapless Maid!—when you my griefs shall hear,
Too soon, alas, you'll answer tear for tear;
Tummas, the lad to whom I gave my heart,
Tummas and I for ay must henceforth part;
He and thy Sweetheart Hodge both listed are,
And now to fight with Frenchmen must prepare.

Margery.
My Roger Listed! Margery's undone,
With Roger every Joy and Comfort's flown;
Was it for this such sugar'd words you spoke,
When the bent six-pence lovingly we broke?—
Was it for this I've oft-times been foretold,
That blest with Roger's love I should grow old?
Nor Sieve or Sheers I'll henceforth e'er believe,
Nor shall St. Agnes' Fast again deceive;
Nor credit more a six-pence put in Ruth,
(Strange! that the Bible thus should tell untruth!)

103

For all my hopes—woe's me! are overblown,
Since Sweetheart Roger for a Soldier's gone.

Deborah.
The bride-cake which I got when Farmer Hale
Married the buxom Widow of the dale,
Beneath my bolster plac'd in kerchief white,
I dreamt of nought but Tummas all the night:
I thought—but Margery, you oft have known,
And well my dreams may guess at by your own:—
Nor dreams or bride-cake henceforth I'll believe,
For dreams and bride-cake both alike deceive.

Margery.
The dew, which I this morn with so much care
Gather'd from yon green field to make me fair,
I'll fling away—Nor henceforth, well I ween,
This blubber'd face ought else save tears shall clean;
For what avails a comely face to boast,
Since all I prize, ah me! in Roger's lost.

Deborah.
When Tummas cut his hand—upon the wound,
To stop the blood, a cobweb straight I bound;
Next day he told me I had heal'd the smart,
And, smiling, wish'd me heal his bleeding heart;
I blush'd—he kiss'd me;—and with sugar'd words,
And tongue as soft and smooth as unbroke curds,
He made me plight my troth; and on a book
Swear to be his: The oath we jointly took:
He swore my True Love he would live and die;—
Are lovers true—who from their True Loves fly?

104

Margery.
Last April-tide—(I little thought so soon
Last April-tide, to part with my dear loon)
Like Roger none such matchless wit cou'd show,
Or make so many April fools, I trow.

Deborah.
A few days gone, (how tender Tummas' breast!)
From a rude lad he sav'd a Linnet's nest;
He swore, and swore aloud—“It was a shame
To murder birds of any sort but Game:”
How can a heart, so tender and so good,
Then make a Trade of shedding Christian blood?

Margery.
In Wrestling no one lad can Hodge excell;
At Cudgels too he always bore the bell;
And but last Wake, when a rude fellow swore
He'd have a kiss, and my lac'd kerchief tore,
I scream'd:—Hodge flew like lightning to my aid,
And at his feet the brute was quickly laid.

Deborah.
In Dancing who with Tummas cou'd compare?
Or foot it on the green with such an air?
At Church too none so loud the Psalms cou'd sing!
He shak'd and quaver'd so he made all ring:
And then to hear him chaunt Bold Robin Hood,
Or Marg'ret's grimly ghost, what hours I've stood!—
I cou'd not stir—I was all ears and eyes;
Dame might scold on—I told her twenty lyes:—
And when he whistled, Margery, I swear
Nor flutes nor black-birds cou'd with him compare.

105

Margery.
A Swallow's nest, which for five summers stood
The nursery of many a callow brood,
Just o'er my casement—where the jessamine
And honey-suckle rival sweets entwine;
(Where Swallows build, good fortune still is known)
Last Easter Day,—Woe's me!—came tumbling down;
The bird return'd from foreign parts yestreen,
And seem'd to pass the spot and mourn I ween,
And now its nest builds elsewhere—as if struck,
My window was the dwelling of ill-luck.

Deborah.
The other night—to think on't makes me weep,
When cocks, hens, pigs, and christians were asleep;
Into our barn the crafty Reynard stole,
He made his way thro' yonder tiny hole;
The hens, all flutt'ring with a piteous cry
Proclaim'd aloud the murd'rous fox was nigh;
Wak'd with the noise, I started in my smock,
And scream'd aloud—“My cock? My ginger cock!”
I came too late—my ginger cock was gone;—
“My cock!” I cry'd—and fell into a swoon:
Crafty the fox, the Serjeant craftier far,
Who in his clutches thus can Tummas bear:
Another Ginger I may get again,
But never, never get so sweet a Swain.

Margery.
No more shall bees to flow'ry meads resort,
Nor with their willing mates cock-sparrows sport;

106

No more in the Red Sea shall Ghosts be laid,
Or midnight Fairies pinch the slattern Maid;
The Gipsy's hand no more shall Maidens cross,
Or more the coffee-dish shall trembling toss,
The lambs shall cease to bleat, the cocks to crow,
When tears for my poor Roger cease to flow.

Deborah.

Sooner the heavy ox shall flit thro' air,
Sooner with turtles rav'nous kites shall pair,
The hog shall sing in soft melodious notes,
And nightingales shall, gruntling, stretch their throats;
Sooner the 'Squire his rent when due refuse,
Or smallest sheaves, in tithing, Parsons chuse;
Sooner than—Break, thou stubborn heart in twain,
Sleeping or waking I forget my Swain.

Thus wail'd the Maids, when on the plain appear'd
Tummas and Roger, whom the 'Squire had clear'd,
The welcome sight at once dispell'd their fears,
Kisses and May-day fare dried up their tears,
The Swains their wishes had, the longing Maidens theirs.

'Tis a Custom among Country Girls to put the Bible under their Pillows at Night, with Six-pence clapt in the Book of Ruth, in order to dream of the Man destin'd to be their Husbands.