XLVIII.
No more with ſocial hoſpitable glee
The village hearths at Chriſtmas-tide reſound,
No more the Whitſun gamboll may you ſee,
Nor morrice daunce, nor May daye jollitie
When the blythe maydens foot the deawy green;
But now, in place, heart-ſinking penurie
And hopeleſſe care on every face is ſeen,
As these the drery times of curfeu bell had been.
XLIX.
And dark of look, a tawdrie villain came,
Muttering ſome words with ſerious-meaning face,
And on the church dore he would fix their name;
Then, nolens volens, they muſt heed the ſame,
And quight those fieldes their yeomen grandſires plowd
Eer ſince black Edwards days, when, crownd with fame,
From Creſſie field the Knights old grandſire prowd
Led home his yeomandrie, and each his glebe allowd.
