Monday; or, The Squabble

LOBBIN CLOUT
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throstles shrill 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 cot so rear?

CUDDY
Ah, Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guess'd,
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;
If swains belie not, thou hast proved the smart,
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.

LOBBIN CLOUT
Ah, Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf:
Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest 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 showers 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 CLOUT
See this tobacco-pouch that's lined with hair,
Made 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.
Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

LOBBIN CLOUT
My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than 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 gillyflower, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gillyflower more fair,
Than daisy, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.

CUDDY
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 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 CLOUT
Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind 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, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!
As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

LOBBIN CLOUT
As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran and snatch'd a hasty kiss,
She wiped 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.

CUDDY
As my Buxoma in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroked her milky care,
I queintly 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 CLOUT
Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of 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.
In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The 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.

LOBBIN CLOUT
As once I play'd at Blindman's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.
I miss'd the swains, and seized on Blouzelind.
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
As at Hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT
On two near elms, the slacken'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 scarlet hose.
Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself poised against the tott'ring maid,
High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I spied — but faithful sweethearts never tell.

LOBBIN CLOUT
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou can'st, explain,
This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry swain.
What flower is that which bears the Virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the same?

CUDDY
Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.
What flower is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves?

CLODDIPOLE
Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains,
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sunbeams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand adry,
They're weary of your songs — and so am I.