 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
BARNEY BROOKE AND BETSEY BAKER.
“If ye have tears prepare to shed them now.”
Mr. Barney Brooke courted Betsey Baker,
She a pastry cook, he an undertaker;
Those who ate her tarts, pies, and sillabubs, sir,
Called her queen of hearts, at their festal clubs, sir.
She a pastry cook, he an undertaker;
Those who ate her tarts, pies, and sillabubs, sir,
Called her queen of hearts, at their festal clubs, sir.
Barney thus began, “Betsey, I adore you,
Before another man, take the man before you;
I 've a thriving trade, doctors are so plenty;
Graves must still be made—maids are grave at twenty.”
Before another man, take the man before you;
I 've a thriving trade, doctors are so plenty;
Graves must still be made—maids are grave at twenty.”
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With a saucy look, quick she answered Barney:
“Mr. Barney Brooke, I will not brook your blarney;
I make pies and tarts; you 've a different trade, sir;
Shall the queen of hearts, take the jack of spades sir.”
“Mr. Barney Brooke, I will not brook your blarney;
I make pies and tarts; you 've a different trade, sir;
Shall the queen of hearts, take the jack of spades sir.”
He in silence sighed, while she stirred her batter,
“Speak!” at length she cried, “never mince the matter.”
Barney answered grave, while his brow was clouded,
“Grant the boon I crave, else my hopes are shrouded.”
“Speak!” at length she cried, “never mince the matter.”
Barney answered grave, while his brow was clouded,
“Grant the boon I crave, else my hopes are shrouded.”
Barney wooed in vain, Betsey mocked his passion,
Ridiculed his pain—jilting was the fashion;
The undertaker died, by sorrow overtaken;
Dr. Smoken tried, but could n't save his bacon.
Ridiculed his pain—jilting was the fashion;
The undertaker died, by sorrow overtaken;
Dr. Smoken tried, but could n't save his bacon.
Soon the pastry cook found her roses wilting,
Because she jilted Brooke, who could not brook her jilting;
Fast her health did waste, pies no more she heeded,
Nor could she knead her paste, although her paste was needed.
Because she jilted Brooke, who could not brook her jilting;
Fast her health did waste, pies no more she heeded,
Nor could she knead her paste, although her paste was needed.
Twelve o'clock at night found the maid a weeping,
When an awful sight set her blood a creeping;
Hid beneath the rug, soon she heard this sentence:
“Bet, your grave is dug, spite of your repentance!”
When an awful sight set her blood a creeping;
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“Bet, your grave is dug, spite of your repentance!”
Betty's spirit fled where it ought to go, sir,
Apes, they say, are led somewhere down below, sir.
Then, pastry cooks beware! Ne'er jilt an undertaker,
Or you may chance to share the fate of Betsey Baker.
Apes, they say, are led somewhere down below, sir.
Then, pastry cooks beware! Ne'er jilt an undertaker,
Or you may chance to share the fate of Betsey Baker.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |