Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The excellent Housekeeper, Mistress Magee,
Is wild as weak women can possibly be:
She fumes and she frets, and examines, and mends,
And she orders about her, and superintends;
Arranging and managing, early and late,
Now sorting the linen, now packing the plate,
Now scolding the butler for doing it wrong;
Upbraiding the footman for lingering long,
And speaking her mind (though a little afraid
Of a saucy reply) to my lady's own maid.
And all confidentially seem to agree
That the journey has bothered poor Mrs. Magee.

“They're going to Lunnon,” she says to herself,
As she takes a large pickle jar down from a shelf,
“To Lunnon!—I never knows any good come
Of people's desarting their comforts at home.
To Lunnon! I takes it exceeding unkind
They should leave me alone in the country behind:
Unless into matters my lady looks deeper,
When she sees the housekeeping—she'll miss the housekeeper!
You go with them, Jane—deary me! I forget
That all the folks call you now Mistress Rosette;
Humph—Mistress Rosette! how you used to complain,
As a housemaid, at my never calling you ‘Jane;’
But how could I help it? now don't take it ill,
I can't forget Jenny, the drudge at the mill.”

Cries Mistress Rosette: “I despises your words;
We all knows your temper would turn cream to curds.
I'd answer—but anger destroys the complexion:
Your age and your 'firmities is your protection!
You envies my going to Lunnon, I see.
These trips are agreeable Mistress Magee.”

“Don't talk about trips,” says the keeper of keys,
“Don't talk about trips, Ma'am, to me if you please;

For your trips I suspect that you need not go far:
You've had plenty of trips in your time, Mistress R.”
Says Mistress Rosette, and she doubles her fist;
“I advises you, Mistress Magee, to desist;
To answer such obsequies only degrades
To a level with you, Madam—us lady's maids.”

“Lady's maids!” with a sneer says the elderly dame;
“The gentlemen's maids were a much better name.”

And dreading a most pugilistic response,
The housekeeper quitted the chamber at once.

Oh sad is the housekeeper, ordered to air
The old family seat with no family there!
To open the windows, to let in the light
Upon furniture only, and shut them at night;
To hear the wind whistling thro' the spring leaves,
No man in the mansion, and dreaming of thieves!
No talk with my lady, no orders to take,
No dinners to manage, no pastry to make,
No housemaid to scold for not using a broom,
No gossip and tea in the housekeeper's room;
No quality company coming to stay,
No little donation on going away,
No pleasant civilities: “Happy to see
You are looking so charmingly, Mistress Magee!
I hope I shall find you as blooming next year,
Without you, I scarcely should know myself here.”
Oh! nothing of this! she must fold up once more
The things that were very well folded before,
Or trying to think herself busy, bestow
New papers and brandy to jams on the go.

The morn of departure, poor Mrs. Magee
Is ready at six, with toast, coffee and tea;
The carriage is pack'd, and Sir Hampton, his lady,
And Mary, are seated within it already;
And Mistress Rosette, scorning weather and wind,
Is seated with John in the rumble behind:

The wheels are in motion—and standing alone,
Poor Mistress Magee's occupation is gone.

And fast flies the travelling carriage, so fast
That the Granby Grove boundaries quickly are past.
And now to the Rectory lawn they are close—
Poor Mary leans forward to gaze at the house;
Her eyes on one casement are fix'd, but so dim
Is the grey light of morning, she cannot see him.
But onward they go, and a turn in the road
Soon veils from her view the poor curate's abode;
With that—from her bosom all hope disappears—
She leans back in the carriage, and bursts into tears.
But one at the Rectory casement hath been,
Looking forth as they pass'd, tho' by Mary unseen.
His night has been sleepless, ah! who hath not known,
What it is in the darkness to stand all alone
By the window, and eagerly watch for the least
Ray of morning that colours the clouds in the east!
Yes, who has not gazed, when the daylight appear'd
For an early departure, expected, yet fear'd;
Now wondering what can have caused a delay
Now certain that something induced them to stay.
Looking out at each noise, with so eager an eye,
As if 'twould be pleasure to see them pass by!
Oh! who has not known what the weary one feels,
Who at length in reality hears the swift wheels,
And traces, or rather believes he can trace,
In the gloom of the carriage, one upturning face,
As if seeking for him, where he oft has been sought;
And then ere quite sure of the glimpse he has caught,
The wheels indistinctly are heard!—they are past.
Can it be she is gone—could that look be the last!
He ought to have spoken; why did he not stand
To acknowledge that look with a wave of the hand?
She will think he was sleeping—how cold and remiss,
To be able to sleep on a morning like this!
What would he not give, to behold her go by
Once again—though the vision as swiftly would fly!

In the instant, she might have beheld on his cheek
The sorrow which plainer than language can speak.
She might have remember'd that agonised glance
In the radiant assembly, the banquet, the dance;
She might have remember'd that look, when the voice
Of a lover more noble proclaims her his choice,
And her lips might have murmur'd: “No, constant I'll be,
I will ne'er forget him, he will ne'er forget me.”