Volume 5 — A Ballad, Or, Collin’s Adventure.

[Listen]

AS Collin went from his Sheep to unfold, In a Morning of April, as grey as ’twas cold, In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread; Which was, O, O, I am almost dead. He peep’d in the Bushes, and spy’d where there lay His Mistress, whose Countenance made April May; But in her looks some sadness was read, Crying O, O, I am almost dead. He rush’d in to her, and cry’d what’s the matter, Ah! Collin, quoth she, why will you come at her, Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled, For which O, O, I am almost dead. He turn’d her Milk-pail, and there down he sat, His Hands stroak’d his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat, But, O, still Mopsa cry’d, before ought was said, Collin, O, O, I am almost dead. No more, quoth stout Collin! I ever was true, Thou gav’st me a Handkerchief all hemm’d with Blue: A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red, Yet still she cry’d, O, O, I am almost dead. Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill, For I never fear’d Sarah that dwelt at the Mill, Since in the Ev’ning late her Hogs thou hast fed, For which, O, O, I am almost dead. Collin then chuck’d her under the Chin, Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin, Says she, I’ll believe it when the Parson has read, ’Till then, O, O, I am almost dead. Uds boars, quoth Collin, I’ll new my shon, And e’er the Week pass, by the Mass it shall be done: You might have done this before, then she said, But now, O, O, I am almost dead. He gave her a twitch that quite turn’d her round, And said, I’m the truest that e’er trod on Ground, Come settle thy Milk-Pail fast on thy Head, No more O, O, I am almost dead. Why then I perceive thoul’t not leave me in the Lurch, I’ll don my best Cloths and streight to the Church: Jog on, merry Collin, jog on before, For I Faith, I Faith, I’ll dye no more.