Classic Poem

W ILLE . R OGET .

Willie.

R OGET , droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this morn with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it;
See how every stream is dress'd
By her margin with the best
Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad
For such brooks such flow'rs she had.
All the trees are quaintly tired
With green buds, of all desired;
And the hawthorn every day
Spreads some little show of May:
See the primrose sweetly set
By the much-lov'd violet,
All the banks do sweetly cover,
As they would invite a lover
With his lass to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tide
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his blood
Had not felt the quick'ning good
Of the sun, nor cares to play,
Or with songs to pass the day
As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,
Raise thy head, and merrily
Tune us somewhat to thy reed:
See our flocks do freely feed,
Here we may together sit,
And for music very fit
Is this place; from yonder wood
Comes an echo shrill and good,
Twice full perfectly it will
Answer to thine oaten quill.
Roget, droop not then, but sing
Some kind welcome to the spring.

Roget.

A H Willie, Willie, why should I
Sound my notes of jollity?
Since no sooner can I play
Any pleasing roundelay,
But some one or other still
'Gins to descant on my quill;
And will say, by this he me
Meaneth in his minstrelsy.
If I chance to name an ass
In my song, it comes to pass,
One or other sure will take it
As his proper name, and make it
Fit to tell his nature too,
Thus whate'er I chance to do
Happens to my loss, and brings
To my name the venom'd stings
Of ill report: how should I
Sound then notes of jollity?

Willie.

'T IS true indeed, we say all,
Rub a gall'd horse on the gall,
Kick he will, storm and bite;
But the horse of sounder plight
Gently feels his master's hand.
In the water thrust a brand
Kindled in the fire, 'twill hiss;
When a stick that taken is
From the hedge, in water thrust,
Never rokes as would the first,
But endures the water's touch:
Roget, so it fares with such
Whose own guilt hath them inflam'd,
Rage whene'er their vice is blam'd.
But who in himself is free
From all spots, as lilies be,
Never stirs, do what thou can.
If thou slander such a man,
Yet he's quiet, for he knows
With him no such vices close.
Only he that is indeed
Spotted with the lep'rous seed
Of corrupted thoughts, and hath
An ulcerous soul in the path
Of reproof, he straight will brawl
If you rub him on the gall.

Roget.

But in vain then shall I keep
These my harmless flock of sheep;
And though all the day I tend them,
And from wolves and foxes shend them,
Wicked swains that bear me spite,
In the gloomy veil of night,
Of my fold will draw the pegs,
Or else break my lambkins' legs,
Or unhang my wether's bell,
Or bring briars from the dell,
And them in my fold by preces
Cast, to tangle all their fleeces.
Well-a-day! such churlish swains
Now and then lurk on our plains:
That I fear a time ere long,
Shall not hear a shepherd's song,
Nor a swain shall take in task
Any wrong, nor once unmask
Such as do with vices rife
Soil the shepherd's happy life:
Except he means his sheep shall be
A prey to all their injury.
This causeth me I do no more
Chant so as I wont of yore:
Since in vain then should I keep
These my harmless flock of sheep.

Willie.

Yet if such thou wilt not sing,
Make the woods and valleys ring
With some other kind of lore:
Roget hath enough in store.
Sing of love, or tell some tale,
Praise the flowers, the hills, the vale:
Let us not here idle be;
Next day I will sing to thee.
Hark, on knap of yonder hill
Some sweet shepherd tunes his quill;
And the maidens in a round
Sit to hear him on the ground;
And if thou begin, shall we
Grac'd be with like company;
And to gird thy temples bring
Garlands for such fingering.
Then raise thee, Roget — —

Roget.

Gentle swain,
Whom I honour for thy strain,
Though it would beseem me more
To attend thee and thy lore,
Yet lest thou might'st find in me
A neglect of courtesy,
I will sing what I did lere
Long agone in Janivere
Of a skilful aged sire,
As we toasted by the fire.

Willie.

S ING it out, it needs must be
Very good what comes from thee.