Classic Poem

MILON

Husbandman Bucaeus, what ails ye now, good drudge? you neither can cut your swath straight as once you did, nor keep time in your reaping with your neighbour. You're left behind by the flock like a ewe with a thorn in her foot. How will it be wi' you when noon is past and day o' the wane, if thus early you make not a clean bite o' your furrow?

BUCAEUS

Good master early-and-late-wi'-sickle, good Sir chip-o'-the-flint, good Milon, hath it never befallen thee to wish for one that is away?

MILON

Never, i' faith; what has a clown like me to do with wishing where there's no getting?

BUCAEUS

Then hath it never befallen thee to lie awake o' nights for love?

MILON

Nay, and God forbid it should. 'Tis ill letting the dog taste pudding.

BUCAEUS

But I've been in love, Milon, the better part of ten days; —

MILON

Then 'tis manifest thou draw'st thy wine from the hogshead the while I am short of vinegar-water.

BUCAEUS

— And so it is that the land at my very door since was seed-time hath not felt hoe.

MILON

And which o' the lasses is thy undoing?

BUCAEUS

'Tis Polybotas' daughter, she that was at Hippocion's t'other day a-piping to the reapers.

MILON

Lord! thy sin hath found thee out. Thou'dst wished and wished, and now, 'faith, thou'st won. There'll be a locust to clasp thee all night long.

BUCAEUS

Thou bid'st fair to play me fault-finder. But there's blind men in heaven besides Him o' the Money-bags, fool Cupid for one. So prithee talk not so big.

MILON

I talk not big, not I; pray be content, go thou on wi' thy laying o' the field, and strike up a song o' love to thy leman. 'Twill sweeten thy toil. Marry, I know thou wast a singer once.

BUCAEUS ( sings )

Pierian Muses, join with me a slender lass to sing;
For all ye Ladies take in hand ye make a pretty thing.

Bombyca fair, to other folk you may a Gipsy be;
Sunburnt and lean they call you; you're honey-brown to me.
Of flowers the violet's dark, and dark the lettered flag-flower tall,
But when there's nosegays making they choose them first of all.
Dame Goat pursues the clover, Gray Wolf doth goat pursue,
Sir Stork pursues the plough; and I — O! I am wild for you.
Would all old Croesus had were mine! O then we'ld figured be
In good red gold for offerings rare before the Love-Ladye,
You with your pipes, a rose in hand or apple, I bedight
Above with mantle fine, below, new buskins left and right.
Bombyca fair, your pretty feet are knucklebones, and O!
Your voice is poppy, but your ways — they pass my power to show.

MILON

Marry, 'twas no 'prentice hand after all. Mark how cunningly he shaped his tune! Alackaday, what a dolt was I to get me a beard! But come hear this of the divine Lityerses:
Demeter, Queen of fruit and ear, bless O bless our field;
Grant our increase greatest be that toil therein may yield.
Grip tight your sheaves, good Binders all, or passers-by will say
" These be men of elder-wood; more wages thrown away.
'Twixt Northwind and Westwind let straws endlong be laid;
The breeze runs up the hollow and the ear is plumper made.
For Threshers, lads, the noontide nap's a nap beside the law,
For noontide's the best tide for making chaff of straw;
But Reapers they are up wi' the lark, and with the lark to bed;
To rest the heat o' the day stands Reapers in good stead.
And 'tis O to be a frog, my lads, and live aloof from care!
He needs no drawer to his drink; 'tis plenty everywhere.
Fie, fie, Sir Steward! better beans, an't please ye, another day;
Thou'lt cut thy finger, niggard, a-splitting caraway.
That's the sort o' song for such as work i' the sun; but that starveling love-ditty o' thine, Bucaeus, would make brave telling to thy mammy abed of a morning.