Analysis of The Shepherd's Week : Saturday; or, The Flights
Bowzybeus.
Sublimer strains, O rustic muse, prepare;
Forget awhile the barn and dary's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays,
With Bowzybeus; songs exalt thy verse,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'Twas in the season when the reaper's toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about,
The lads with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow
Cut down the labours of the winter plough.
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,
She feign'd her coat or garter was untied,
Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,
And merry reapers, what they list, will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill
That echo answer'd from the distant hill;
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd.
When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside.
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rozin'd bow torment the string:
That Bowzybeus who with finger's speed
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who with jocund tongue,
Ballads and roundelays and catches sung.
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.
Ah Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong!
Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night,
But thou sat'st toping 'till the morning light.
Cic'ly, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,
And kiss'd, with smacking lip, the snoring lout.
For custom says, 'Whoe'er this venture proves,
'For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.'
By her example Dorcas bolder grows,
And plays a tickling straw within his nose.
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke
The sneering swains with stammering speech bespoke.
To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,
As for the maids, - I've something else in store.
No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud,
Nor parish-clerk who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus sooths the attentive ear.
Of nature's laws his carols first begun,
Why the grave owl can never face the sun.
For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
And only sing and seek their prey by night.
How turnips hide their swelling heads below,
And how the closing colworts upwards grow;
How Will-a-Wisp misleads night-faring clowns,
O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs.
Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail,
And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail,
He sung where wood-cocks in the summer feed,
And in what climates they renew their breed;
Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend,
Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend.
Where swallows in the winter season jeep,
And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep.
How nature does the puppy's eye-lid close,
Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose,
For huntsmen by their long experience find,
That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.
Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,
For still new fairs before his eyes arose.
How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid,
The various fairings of the country maid.
Long silken laces hang upon the twine,
And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine;
How the tight lass, knives, combs, and scissars spies,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold.
The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
And all the fair is crowded in his song.
The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs
And on the rope the vent'rous maiden swings;
Jack-pudding in his parti-colour'd jacket
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats.
Then sad he sung 'the children in the wood.'
Ah barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!
How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild,
And fearless at the glittering fauchion smil'd;
Their little corpse with robin-red-breasts found,
And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around.
Ah gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long,
Your name shall live for ever in my song.
For buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,
How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.
To louder strains he rais'd his
Scheme | ABBAAAACCDDEEFFGGHHIIFFJJKKLLMMNNMMDDAAAAOJPQNNRSTUUMMVVAAWWKKXXYYAAZZAAII1 1 AA2 2 NNAAAA3 3 AA4 5 6 6 7 7 NN8 8 A |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1 11110101 010101011 11011100101 011101001 1110111 11010100101 100101011 1011011101 1101110101 111010101 0111010101 110110101 1011110101 1101110101 101111101 010111111 1111011111 1101010101 010111101 1111010101 1101111 110111101 1111101 11011101 111111 111110101 111111 10010101 110111011 001010101 11111111 0101011101 1111010111 1111110101 111110101 0111010101 110111101 1101010111 1001010101 010110111 111100011 01011111 11111111010 1101110101 1101111101 110110111 110111101 1101110111 11100101 1101110101 1011110101 1111010101 0101011111 1101110101 010101101 1101011101 1010101011 1111111101 0101111111 1111100101 0011010111 1111011111 1101011001 1100010101 010101011 110101111 1011111101 1111101001 1101110111 1111011101 1111011101 1111100111 0100110101 1101010101 0111010101 101111011 0111101001 11001110111 1101110111 010110101 0101110011 01110101 11110111 110010010101 010101101 11001101010 100101110010 11111011 11010101001 1111010001 11001011101 110110101 0101010011 1101110111 0111010101 1101111111 1111110011 1101110101 1011010101 1101111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,400 |
Words | 778 |
Sentences | 38 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 101 |
Lines Amount | 101 |
Letters per line (avg) | 35 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 3,527 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 776 |
Font size:
Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:03 min read
- 37 Views
Citation
Use the citation below to add this poem analysis to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"The Shepherd's Week : Saturday; or, The Flights" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Mar. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/22790/the-shepherd%27s-week-%3A-saturday%3B-or%2C-the-flights>.
Discuss this John Gay poem analysis with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In