Analysis of The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble
Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole
Lobbin Clout.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?
Cuddy.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
'For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;'
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda smiles, Buxoma me.
Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fallen calf;
Wo worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.
Cuddy.
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
Lobbin Clout.
See this tobacco-pouch that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer.
This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.
Cuddy.
Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lobbin Clout.
My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows,
Fair is the gillyflow'r, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gillyflow'r more fair,
Than daisy, marigold, or king-cup rare.
Cuddy.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at Wake delightsome gambol play'd.
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;
But neither lamb nor kid, nor calf nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Lobbin Clout.
Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near,
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!
Cuddy.
As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd a holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.
Lobbin Clout.
As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.
Cuddy.
As my Buxoma in a morning fair,
With gentle finger strok'd her milky care,
I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
Lobbin Clout.
Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potato is the cheer;
Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks nor oatmeal nor potato prize.
Cuddy.
In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife,
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
Lobbin Clout.
As once I play'd at Blindman's-Buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick w
Scheme | a Bccddee Fgghhibff Bjjaa Fkkllkkmmllneooff Bnemm Fpp Bqqrrssnn Fttuullvvww Beexaxx Fwwxxww Bxxyyww Fnnmmzz Beeibkk F1 1 nnfF bbm |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11101 11 111011101 111010101 110101101 110101011 10101110101 1111011111 10 111111111 1111010111 111111101 0110111 11011111 11110111 0111101101 11111 11 11111111 11111101101 1101110111 11111 10 110111101 1101111101 1101011 010111011 11111101 1111111101 111101111 1101111101 1111010101 111010111 1101110101 111101111 11111101 011101001 110111111 11110111 11 110111111 110111011 1111111101 1101011111 10 011101111 110111101 11 111011 111010101 110111011 1101010101 11011101 11010111 111111 110101111 10 1111011 11011111 11111011 01010011 0101110101 011010101 01011111001 011111101 1101111111 11110111 11 11111111 1001110101 1011010111 0101111111 11111010 1101011010 10 11111111 111111010 01011101 111111111 111111101 010111110 11 110011 010110101 111010101 1101111101 0111011111 0111010101 10 11100101 1101010101 1101011111 1111010111 111011111 0111010101 11 11011111 110101101 1111010101 11010111 1111010101 11111011 10 011111111 011011101 10101010111 11111111 111111111 1111110111 11 111111111 01110101100 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,238 |
Words | 758 |
Sentences | 53 |
Stanzas | 16 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 7, 9, 5, 17, 5, 3, 9, 11, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 3 |
Lines Amount | 112 |
Letters per line (avg) | 30 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 211 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 47 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:59 min read
- 83 Views
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"The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/22789/the-shepherd%27s-week-%3A-monday%3B-or-the-squabble>.
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