Bumkinet, Grubbinol
Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem?There’s sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.‘Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borneAnd their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.Yet ev’n this season pleasance blithe affords,Now the squeez’d press foams with…