Susan A poem of degrees. By the author of "Dorothy: a country story in elegiac verse," "Vulgar verses," etc. [i.e. A. J. Munby] |
 |
 | Susan |  |
They went abroad. Ah, what a change of scene
From that old cottage on the village green
Where she was born and bred! She wonder'd much
At all she saw; yet never lost that touch
Of native shrewdness, which could make her wise
To hide her wonder from the strangers' eyes.
But most she wonder'd at the things she heard:
‘I canna make out not a single word,’
She sadly said; ‘they dunna talk like us!
It's jabber, jabber, an' a deal o' fuss
As I can't tell. It inna likely, though,
As I could speak a-thatns! Do you know,
One day when you was out, I rung the bell
(I seem'd as I was ringin for mysel,
When I did that) an' straight away, there come
A servant, same as I look like at home;
An' then, I was in such a dreadful way—
I couldna tell her what I'd got to say!
Her stood an' stared at me, an' me at her:
At last I says, ‘My wench, your character
'S as good as mine, I reckon; you an' me
'Ud do for fellow-servants; but yo' see,
Us canna make each other out at all!
Inna that dreadful?’ Well, it's what I call
A mercy—but her understood me, then!
I know she did; for her spoke up again
A-sayin ‘Oui, Madame!’ an' them two words,
I know'd what they mean, long since, at my Lord's,
When I was scullion. Mossu Philibert,
He didna like to see me i' my dirt,
A-cleanin stewpans an' a-diggin coal;
He made me stop all day inside my hole,
While them things was a-doin. But I heerd
Folks passin by; an' though I was afeard,
I often got to see 'em, unbeknown—
High ladies of upstairs, as 'ud coom down
To see the kitchens, an' the cookin too.
Well, he spoke French, you know, the same as you
To these here foreigners; an' I made out,
A little bit, what it was all about:
‘Mon Dieu,’ he used to say; an' then ‘Mon âme,’
An' ‘Peste’; an' always, he said ‘Oui Madame,’
A-speakin to them ladies. So I seed
As that meant ‘Yes ma'am’; an' it do, indeed!
Nobody never call'd me Ma'am afore;
But that wench did say Ma'am, an' nothin more,
In her French talk; an' went away downstairs,
A-thinkin, maybe, what tremenjous airs
Us English servants has; drest up so prime,
An' you to go about with!’
From that old cottage on the village green
Where she was born and bred! She wonder'd much
At all she saw; yet never lost that touch
Of native shrewdness, which could make her wise
To hide her wonder from the strangers' eyes.
But most she wonder'd at the things she heard:
‘I canna make out not a single word,’
She sadly said; ‘they dunna talk like us!
It's jabber, jabber, an' a deal o' fuss
As I can't tell. It inna likely, though,
As I could speak a-thatns! Do you know,
One day when you was out, I rung the bell
(I seem'd as I was ringin for mysel,
When I did that) an' straight away, there come
A servant, same as I look like at home;
An' then, I was in such a dreadful way—
I couldna tell her what I'd got to say!
Her stood an' stared at me, an' me at her:
At last I says, ‘My wench, your character
'S as good as mine, I reckon; you an' me
'Ud do for fellow-servants; but yo' see,
Us canna make each other out at all!
Inna that dreadful?’ Well, it's what I call
A mercy—but her understood me, then!
I know she did; for her spoke up again
25
I know'd what they mean, long since, at my Lord's,
When I was scullion. Mossu Philibert,
He didna like to see me i' my dirt,
A-cleanin stewpans an' a-diggin coal;
He made me stop all day inside my hole,
While them things was a-doin. But I heerd
Folks passin by; an' though I was afeard,
I often got to see 'em, unbeknown—
High ladies of upstairs, as 'ud coom down
To see the kitchens, an' the cookin too.
Well, he spoke French, you know, the same as you
To these here foreigners; an' I made out,
A little bit, what it was all about:
‘Mon Dieu,’ he used to say; an' then ‘Mon âme,’
An' ‘Peste’; an' always, he said ‘Oui Madame,’
A-speakin to them ladies. So I seed
As that meant ‘Yes ma'am’; an' it do, indeed!
Nobody never call'd me Ma'am afore;
But that wench did say Ma'am, an' nothin more,
In her French talk; an' went away downstairs,
A-thinkin, maybe, what tremenjous airs
Us English servants has; drest up so prime,
An' you to go about with!’
Many a time,
Trials like this assail'd the peasant bride,
As she moved onward by her husband's side
Through lands so fair and scenes so beautiful,
That she, whose sympathies were fain and full
As Nature's own, with beauty, used to say
That things like them was far too good to stay
Outside of Heaven, and a deal too nice
For folks as hadna come to Paradise.
‘If I'd ha' known,’ said she, ‘how monstrous grand
Them mountains is, as welly seems to stand
Right up above the clouds; an' what a sight
O' runnin water, pourin down as white
An' full o' froth as suds o' washin day,
Bless yo', I reckon I'd ha' stopp'd away,
An' never let you 'tice me out to here!
For why, it grips me with a kind o' fear:
If you an' me, now, was at Bagworth Fair,
I shouldna mind; not as I wish nor care
For swings an' gingerbread; but one do feel
It's humanlike, an' homelier by a deal
Nor these great mountains is. Dear heart alive!
To think as folks can fret an' sweat an' thrive
An' live i' sin, in sight o' such as them—
The very walls o' New Jerusalem!’
Trials like this assail'd the peasant bride,
As she moved onward by her husband's side
Through lands so fair and scenes so beautiful,
That she, whose sympathies were fain and full
26
That things like them was far too good to stay
Outside of Heaven, and a deal too nice
For folks as hadna come to Paradise.
‘If I'd ha' known,’ said she, ‘how monstrous grand
Them mountains is, as welly seems to stand
Right up above the clouds; an' what a sight
O' runnin water, pourin down as white
An' full o' froth as suds o' washin day,
Bless yo', I reckon I'd ha' stopp'd away,
An' never let you 'tice me out to here!
For why, it grips me with a kind o' fear:
If you an' me, now, was at Bagworth Fair,
I shouldna mind; not as I wish nor care
For swings an' gingerbread; but one do feel
It's humanlike, an' homelier by a deal
Nor these great mountains is. Dear heart alive!
To think as folks can fret an' sweat an' thrive
An' live i' sin, in sight o' such as them—
The very walls o' New Jerusalem!’
| Susan | |