THE FORLORN SHEPHERD’S COMPLAINT. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SIDNEY.
Reading edition
IT may be necessary to bespeak the indulgent consideration of the reader, for the appearance of the following Curiosity in such a work. The truth is, the pages of the Comic Annual naturally present to me the most obvious means of making the Poem known; betides, as it were, offering personal security for my own belief in its authenticity. And, considering my literary credit as so pledged, I do not hesitate to affirm that I think the effusion in question may confidently be referred to Sidney: and even—on the internal evidence of its pastoral character—to the Arcadia. The verses have never till now appeared in print. The lover of Old English Poetry would vainly hunt for it in any edition extant of the works of Sir Philip; and, probably, the family records and remains at Penshurst might be searched to as little purpose for a copy in MS. From the extreme quaintness of the original, which would have required the help of a glossary to render it generally intelligible, I have thought it advisable to translate many of the phrases into more current language; but scrupulously preserving the sense of the text. Enough of the peculiar style, however, still remains, to aid in forming a judgment of the author’s æra. As for the apparent incongruity of the double vocation ascribed to the tuneful Swain in the Poem, besides abundant classical evidence that the Corydons of ancient times were often, also, heroes, or warriors, or adventurers, we have the positive contemporary testimony of modern travellers, that in those very pastures where the scene is laid, it is at this day the practice to entrust the charge of the flocks to personages who have formerly been engaged in the same perilous career as the “Forlorn Shepherd.” His lament, it will be seen, is full of regrets and stealing tears for the stirring times of Auld Lang Syne.
THE FORLORN SHEPHERD’S COMPLAINT.
“Vell! Here I am—no Matter how it suits, A-keeping Company with them dumb Brutes, Old Park vos no bad Judge—confound his vig! Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig! “The like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales To go a-tagging arter Vethers’ Tails And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock, But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock! “To go to set this solitary Job To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob! It’s out of all our Lines, for sure I am Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!”
A PUBLIC DINNER.
“I arn’t ashamed to say I sit and veep To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep, The spooniest Beasts in Nater, all to Sticks, And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks! “If I’d fore-seed how Transports would turn out To only Baa! and Botanize about, I’d quite as leaf have had the t’other Pull, And come to Cotton as to all this Vool! “Von only happy moment I have had Since here I come to be a Farmer’s Cad, And then I cotch’d a vild Beast in a Snooze, And pick’d her Pouch of three young Kangaroos! “Vot chance have I to go to Race or Mill? Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till; And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry, I’d put the Natives’ Linen in my Eye! “If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag, And find a Fence to turn it into Swag, I’d give it all in Lonnon Streets to stand, And if I had my pick, I’d say the Strand! “But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall, To my old crib to meet with Jack, and Sal, I’ve been so gallows honest in this Place, I shan’t not like to show my sheepish Face. “It’s wery hard for nothing but a Box Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin’ Flocks, ’Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus, They’ve nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus. “But Folks may tell their Troubles till they’re sick To dumb brute Beasts,—and so I’ll cut my Stick! And vot’s the Use a Feller’s Eyes to pipe Vere von can’t borrow any Gemman’s Vipe?”
OUT OF SIGHT OUT OF MIND.