THE DITTY.
15
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,Your early breakfast is my constant care.And when with even hand you strow the grain, I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain. In misling days when I my thresher heard, 55 With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;Lost in the musick of the whirling flail, To gaze on thee I left the smoaking pail: In harvest when the sun was mounted high,My leathern bottle did thy drought supply; 60 When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake, And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake: When in the welkin gath'ring show'rs were seen, I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green; And when at eve returning with thy carr, 65 Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far,Strait on the fire the sooty pot I plac't, To warm thy broth, I burnt my hands for haste; When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf, I flic'd the luncheon from the barley loaf, 70 With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess. Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less! Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set, I, near yon stile, three fallow Gypsies met: Upon my hand they cast a poring look, 75Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook; They said that many crosses I must prove, Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.Next mom I miss'd three hens and our old cock, And off the hedge two pinners and a smock. 80 I bore those losses with a christian mind, And no mishaps could feel, whilst thou wert kind; But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn, I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn. Help me, ye Gypsies, bring him home again, 85 And to a constant lass give back her swain. Have I not sat with thee full many a night; When dying embers were our only light,
Whne
