Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COUNTRY LIFE; BALLAD TO A FRENCH TUNE, by PATRICK CAREY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COUNTRY LIFE; BALLAD TO A FRENCH TUNE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Fondlings! Keep to th' city
Last Line: You see's in the country got.
Subject(s): Country Life


I

FONDLINGS! keep to th' city,
Ye shall have my pity;
But my envy, not:
Since much larger measure
Of true pleasure
I'm sure's in the country got.

II

Here's no din, no hurry,
None seeks here to curry
Favour, by base means:
Flatt'ry's hence excluded;
He's secluded
Who speaks aught, but what he means.

III

Though your talk, and weeds be
Glittering, yet your deeds be
Poor, we them despise:
Silken are our actions,
And our pactions,
Though our coats and words be frize.

IV

Here's no lawyer brawling;
Rising poor, rich falling;
Each is what he was;
That we have, enjoying;
Not annoying
Any good, another has.

V

There y' have ladies gaudy;
Dames, that can talk bawdy;
True, w' have none such here:
Yet our girls love surely,
And have purely
Cheeks unpainted, souls most clear.

VI

Sweet, and fresh our air is;
Each brook cool, and fair is;
On the grass we tread:
Foul's your air, streets, water;
And thereafter
Are the lives which there you lead.

VII

Not our time in drenching,
Cramming, gaming, wenching,
Here we cast away:
Yet we too are jolly;
Melancholy
Comes not near us, night nor day.

VIII

Scarce the morn is peeping
But we straight leave sleeping,
From our beds we rise:
To the fields then hie we,
And there ply we
Wholesome, harmless exercise.

IX

Each comes back a winner;
Each brings home his dinner,
Which was first his sport:
And upon it feasting,
Toying, jesting,
W' envy not your cates at court.

X

Th' afternoons we lose not,
Idleness we choose not,
But are still employ'd:
Dancers some, some bowlers,
Some are fowlers,
Some in angling most are joy'd.

XI

Th' evening homewards brings us,
Whither hunger wings us;
Ready soon's our food:
Spare, light, sweet to th' palate,
And a sallet
To refresh our heated blood.

XII

Pleasantly then talking
Forth we go a walking;
Thence return to rest:
No sad dream encumbers
Our sweet slumbers;
Innocence thus makes us blest.

XIII

Keep now, keep to th' city
Fondlings! y' have my pity,
But my envy, not:
Since much larger measure
Of true pleasure
You see's in the country got.





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