"This hempseed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true love be the crop shall mow."
I straight look'd back, and if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen sithe behind me came the youth.
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find,
I early rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chased the stars away;
Afield I went, amid the morning dew,
To milk my kine (for so should huswives do):
Thee first I spied, and the first swain we see,
In spite of fortune, shall our true love be.
See, Lubberkin! each bird his partner take,
And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake?
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail
That might my secret lover's name reveal;
Upon a gooseberry bush a snail I found,
For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.
I seized the vermin, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the milkwhite embers spread:
Slow crawl'd the snail, and if I right can spell,
In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L:
Oh! may this wondrous omen lucky prove;
For L is found in Lubberkin and love. [ground,
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'Two hazel-nuts I threw into the flame,
And, to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name;
This with the loudest bounce me sore amazed,
That in a flame of brightest colour blazed:
As blazed the nut so may thy passion grow,
For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow.
6 With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'As peascods once I pluck'd, I chanced to see
One that was closely fill'd with three times three,
Which when I cropp'd I safely home convey'd,
And o'er the door the spell in secret laid:
My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new,
While from the spindle I the fleeces drew;
The latch moved up, when who should first come in,
But, in his proper person,-Lubberkin!
I broke my yarn, surprised the sight to see,
Sure sign that he would break his word with me.
Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted slight;
So may again his love with mine unite!
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
This lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass.
Fly, lady-bird; north, south, or east, or west,
Fly where the man is found that I love best.
He leaves my hand; see to the west he's flown,
To call my true love from the faithless town.
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
This mellow pippin, which I pare around, My shepherd's name shall flourish on the ground; I fling the'unbroken paring o'er my head, Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen
Than what the paring marks upon the green.
." With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'This pippin shall another trial make; See from the core two kernels brown I take; This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn, And Boobyclod on the' other side is borne: But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, A certain token that his love's unsound; While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last; Oh! were his lips to mine but join'd so fast! 6 With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree,
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee;
He wist not when the hempen string I drew;
Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue;
Together fast I tie the garters twain,
And while I knit the knot repeat this strain;
"Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure,
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure."
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'As I was wont, I trudged last market day
To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay.
I made my market long before 'twas night;
My purse grew heavy, and my basket light.
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,
And in love-powder all my money spent:
Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers,
When to the alehouse Lubberkin repairs,
These golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
'But hold—our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his
ears,
O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.
He comes! he comes! Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid.
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown;
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!'
WRITTEN ON MIDSUMMER EVE, 1786.
SWEET to the fond poetic eye
The evening cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam
(Where the horizon steals from sight),
Cool tinctured in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottaged green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!
Now glimmer scarce the hill-tops near,
As village murmurs catch mine ear:
And now yon cot, beside the lea
(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee),
Fades to the glimpse of twilight gray,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as just lit, the light of rush
Twinkles through the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, though direst of the year!
Oft on the shrub* she casts her eye,
That spoke her true love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true love's faithless heart was cold.
The moss-rose that, at fall of dew
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew),
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;
And, guarded from the piercing air,
With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake→→
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads the rustic is untrue!
But if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses press'd,
He plucks it from her panting breast.
Dearer than seas of glowing pearl,
The' illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, upon this thrice hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.
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