University of Virginia Library

Ah, what a time it is, that finishing day of the harvest!
When the last load comes home, joyously into the yard;
Labourers, women and men, all shouting and singing around it—
Glad that their work is done; scenting the supper at last!
Labourers, women and men, come gathering in to that supper,
Silent and shy at first, thinking of what there will be,
What there will be to eat—for that is the principal question;
Drink we are sure there will be—every one knows there is beer.
Master himself sits first, with his wife and daughter beside him;
Friends—Mr. Robert, perhaps—friends are the next in degree;
Then, Carter John and his spouse, and the shepherd, and Davy the fiddler;
Then, all the harvest folks, lads and their lasses arow:
All expecting awhile the tender delights of the banquet;
Each one grasping a knife, eager at once to fall to.
But, though the meal is served, and the guests have begun their enjoyment,
Dorothy never sits down—she is too busy for that:
She is still bustling about, her face on fire with labour,
Waiting on this one and that, filling their mugs to the brim;
Washing up dishes and plates, or fetching hot things from the oven;
Active and ready and kind, caring for all but herself.
Often they made her a place, crying ‘Dolly, why don't you sit down, lass?’
Often her mistress call'd ‘Dolly, the pudding's a-cold!’
So that at last she sat down, on a bench at the foot of the table,
Emptied her plate and her mug, drank to a health with the rest;
Eating as fast as she could—for she was the last, you remember—
Thrusting her trencher away jauntily, when she had done!
Ah, poor ignorant girl, how shall we attempt to reform her?
How shall we soften her hands, polish her rough rugged ways?
How can we ever expect didicisse fideliter artes,
So that her father's friends haply may notice his child?
Yes, how indeed! For, as soon as they tired of the δαιτος εισης,
Dorothy sprang to her feet, lightly jump'd over the bench,
Heaved it up under her arm, and another bench under the left arm,
Swept off the plates in a trice, push'd the big table aside,
Carried off dishes and mugs by armfuls into the back-house,
Turn'd up her sleeves once more, girded herself to wash up.

E'en when the room was clear'd, and the couples all ranged for the dancing,
Dorothy did not appear, she was too busy for that:
And, in the scullery there, still washing and rinsing and wiping,
Who was it found her at last? Why, Mr. Robert himself!
‘Dolly lass, what does thee mean—washing up, when the folks are a-playing?
‘Come to the kitchen with me: I must have thee for a dance!
‘How can thee stand like this, with the lads all romping and laughing—
‘Davy—why, hark to him now—scraping his fiddle like mad?’
‘Well, Mr. Robert,’ said she, ‘I've finish'd my work, very nearly;
‘But I must clean myself first—then I will come, by-and-by.
‘And it is kind of you, very kind, to want me for the dancing;
‘For there's a many, you know, ought to be ax'd afore me.
‘What would my Missis say, if you didn't dance first wi’ Miss Mary?
‘May be you have, to be sure; still, you should do it again:
‘Then, if you wish it, you know, you'll be certain to light o'me somewheres;
‘But you must leave me just now, else I shall never get done.’
Strangely he smiled, as she spoke, with his hands stuck into his pockets:
‘Well, thou's a hard-working wench, Dolly, my lass, I declare!
‘But thou art something besides: don't thee know, thou art very good-looking?’
‘Nay, Mr. Robert,’ says she, ‘don't you come joking at me!’
Well, never mind—we shall see, by-and-by, when thou comes to the dancing:
‘If thee don't dance with me soon, George! but I'll kiss thee again!’
‘Fie, Mr. Robert!’—And then she took off her clogs and her apron
(Not till he'd gone, though), and wash'd; cool'd her hot face at the pump:
Scrubb'd her rough hands and her arms with the floor brush, as if it was Sunday;
Making them redder, indeed, but—for a labourer's—clean:
Then she went lightly upstairs, to her own little loft in the attic;
Put on a clean cotton frock, brush'd out her bonny bright hair:
Turn'd down her sleeves—for, you know, you ladies wear sleeves in a morning,
Baring your arms but at night, just for the men to admire;
But, with these working girls, bare arms are needed for labour;
So, when the labour is done, sleeves are a sign of repose:
Sleeves, too, are useful to hide—as Dorothy felt when she wore them—
Workaday arms like hers, if there were gentlefolks near;
Gentlefolks do so stare at the rough ruddy skin of a servant—
Just as if she could have arms cover'd and coddled, like theirs!
Not that she knew much of that, for gentlefolks seldom came near her:
But—Mr. Robert was there; he might object to her arms.
Therefore she turn'd down her sleeves, rejoicing that such was the fashion;
Donn'd her white collar and cuffs—oh, what a luxury they!
Oh, what a contrast, too, to the sunburnt neck of the wearer,
And to her strong red wrists, strengthen'd by holding the plough!
But when she look'd in the glass, there was something, just then, to console her,
Whether for rough red wrists, or for a throat that was tann'd:
There was a rosy young face, as bright and as brown as a berry;
Framed in its pale yellow hair, like a ripe nut in the sheath.
And she beheld it, and smiled; for she thought, after all, for a wonder,
Brown as it was, he was right: some folks might think she was fair!
Think she was fair? Yes, indeed! she might easily pass for a lady,
Judged by her features alone: but for her hard-working hands;
But for her tell-tale hands, so big and so broad—on the outside
Rough as the bark of a tree, hard as its timber within.
Still, she had gloves, you suppose: at least on occasions of this sort?
Gloves? How our Dolly would laugh, if she could hear you say that!
Rarely on Sundays at church, and certainly not on a week day,
Had she worn gloves in her life: why, she had never a pair!
Stay—she had one: men's size; they had once belong'd to her father:
Gentlemen's gloves: so of course they were too little for her.
Gloves! You might almost as soon see her scented with lavender water;
Using a silk parasol; wearing a muff, or a veil!
And, when that pert little Poll, who likes dressmaking better than service,
Sewing at White Rose Farm, said to our Dorothy once—
‘How can you do with such hands, a nice-looking creature as you are?
‘Spoilt like an ostler's with work—how can you let 'em be seen?’
‘How can I let 'em be seen?’ says Dorothy, ‘how can I help it?
‘Me that must work for my bread morning and night, as I do?
‘Nobody sees 'em, you know, except master and missis and Mary;
‘Well, Mr. Robert, perhaps; he must be used to 'em now.
‘But if they did, what o’ that? I'm sure they may see 'em and welcome:
‘See 'em, and feel if they like; then they'll find out if they're hard!
‘Why, when we stand to be hired—farm-wenches, I mean, such as I am—
‘Up at the Martlemas Fair, don't they look first at our hands?
‘Ay, and the lass 'at has hands showing work as plainly as mine does
‘She gets the Godspenny first—she is the one they would choose.
‘Spoilt, did you say? Well, I know I reckon my hands is my fortune:
‘I'm not ashamed of 'em—no, nor of the work they can do!’
Such was her argument still; she was not ashamed of her calling,
Nor of its outward signs—homely, uncouth, if they were;
She was contented: ‘Because she had never known anything better?’
Lucky for her, I should say, not to know anything worse!
And she had known nothing worse than a simple and innocent girlhood,
Spent among rural scenes, country delights and employ:
Under a kindhearted dame, amid cheerful and lowly companions,
Fond of their life, like her; caring for little beyond.
Regular open-air work, and home-made food in abundance,
Strengthen'd her spirit and frame, straighten'd her lusty young limbs;
So that at length she was fit for her place as a wife and a mother—
Mother of men like herself; Englishmen, sturdy and tall.