27. The Wake
Come, Anthea, let us twoGo to feast, as others do:Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,Are the junkets still at wakes;Unto which the tribes resort,Where the business is the sport:Morris-dancers thou shalt see,Marian, too, in pageantry;And a mimic to deviseMany grinning properties.Players there will be, and thoseBase in action as in clothes;Yet with strutting they will pleaseThe incurious villages.Near the dying of the dayThere will be a cudgel-play,Where a coxcomb will be broke,Ere a good word can be spoke:But the anger ends all here,Drench’d in ale, or drown’d in beer.—Happy rusticks! best contentWith the cheapest merriment;And possess no other fear,Than to want the Wake next year.
28. THE HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME: TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORLAND
Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toilWe are the lords of wine and oil:By whose tough labours, and rough hands,We rip up first, then reap our lands.Crown’d with the ears of corn, now come,And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cartDrest up with all the country art.See, here a maukin, there a sheet,As spotless pure, as it is sweet:The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.The harvest swains and wenches boundFor joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown’d.About the cart, hear, how the routOf rural younglings raise the shout;Pressing before, some coming after,Those with a shout, and these with laughter.Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;Some prank them up with oaken leaves:Some cross the fill-horse; some with greatDevotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:While other rustics, less attentTo prayers, than to merriment,Run after with their breeches rent.—Well, on, brave boys, to your lord’s hearth,Glitt’ring with fire; where, for your mirth,Ye shall see first the large and chiefFoundation of your feast, fat beef;With upper stories, mutton, vealAnd bacon, which makes full the meal,With sev’ral dishes standing by,As here a custard, there a pie,And here, all tempting frumenty.And for to make the merry cheer,If smirking wine be wanting here,There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer:Which freely drink to your lord’s healthThen to the plough, the common-wealth;Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;Then to the maids with wheaten hats:To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,—Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,Be mindful, that the lab’ring neat,As you, may have their fill of meat.And know, besides, ye must revokeThe patient ox unto the yoke,And all go back unto the ploughAnd harrow, though they’re hang’d up now.And, you must know, your lord’s word’s true,Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;And that this pleasure is like rain,Not sent ye for to drown your pain,But for to make it spring again.