University of Virginia Library

Yes, sir, I are very black; it's a Saturday, sir, you see;
Not as the day o' the week makes much of a difference to me!
Sundays, of coorse I are clean; at least of a afternoon,
When I've wash'd up the dinner things, an' starts away pretty soon
I' my bonnet an' green plaid shawl, what you said was plain an' neat,
An' a tidy cotton frock, an' a good pair o' boots o' my feet;
For I do think a good sound boot, if you're ever so humble an' coarse,
Looks respectable like, same as good shoes does on a horse;
An' my master, he's very kind, he gives me his old uns to weer,
Laced boots, stout an' thick; an' they fit me—or very near:
For I know by the many I've clean'd, what a gentleman's boots should be,
An' of coorse they're a bit too small for a big strong wench like me.
Shooting boots is the thing: when I've got to swill the yard,
Or any such work as that, what is wet an' dirty an' hard,
I always puts 'em on; for master he give me a pair,
An' they're better by half nor pattens; you can stump in 'em anywhere.
Aye, an' I often do, if chance I ha' gotten 'em on—
Going of errands an' that, wi' the day's work welly done.
An' the ragman says to me once, when I went wi' a bag o' soot,
“Well, young blackie,” he says, “but thou hast got a sweet little foot!”
“Aye, mate,” I says, “it's big, but if you had a place like mine,
I lay you couldna do wi' a foot as is little an' fine.”
Eh, what a thing it is, how folks does jeer at me!
One 'ud think they niver ha' know'd what a lodgin'-house drudge med be.
But me an' the sweep is friends, though I doubt he's jealous a bit,
Cause he knows I can sweep a chimbley too, an' I beant asham'd of it.
I was a sweep, sir, once; an' for all they reckon it low,
A bed o' soot i' the chimbley's the softest thing I know.
Many's the time I ha' laid in one—like a donkey in the dust,
A rollin' over an' over; an' I did enjoy it, just!
Only a minute, though; for we wasn't allow'd to wait:
An' I couldn't ha' done it at all, in a flue like o' this here grate;
But I've work'd in a deal o' old housen, weer chimbleys is big an' wide,
An' when you've got half way up, the flue turns off to a side,
Flatling, just like a drain; an' that's weer the soot lays most,
An' that's weer I used to lie, as snug an' warm as a toast:
Warm? aye, as warm as the ways, when I draw'd i' Owd Engine Pit—
Draw'd wi' the belt an' cheean, an' was got that fond on it
When they tonn'd us oot, worse luck! an' I took to the sweepin' trade;
But I grow'd too big for that, so I wrought wi' the pick an' spade
Down at the quarry at Uffham; an' that was a good trade too;
Suited me well, it did, for I'd lots o' work to do;
An' instead o' black, I got brown, wi' the sun an' wind an' that;
Brown as a berry, I were! an' for months, I addled an' swat,
Hewing the clay wi' the men: but the wages was poor, you see,
An' I got into service at last; an' a good job too, for me.
Aye, I ha' rose i' the world; an' I reckons mysen pretty high,
Been a maid of all work now, in a reg'lar family.
But, Lord, it's faddlin' work, for all the grease an' the grime,
Faddlin' work, is this here, to what I ha' done i' my time!
Why, to look at them servant gells, what yo see up an' down i' the street,
Traipsin' along like owt, an' little thin boots o' their feet,
An' arms like a couple o' sticks, an' cheeks—why you'd think they clem,
That sickly an' pale they be; an' for me to be reckon'd wi' them,
It's fit to drive one wild! Aye, an' missis is welly as bad:
Lady, I doubt her is; an' it maks me as good as mad,
Her wi' her fratchety ways, an' as nesh as a new-born babe!

Eh, sir, I often thinks what he used to say—owd Abe,
Him as were Gaffer i' pit, an' I work'd under him then;
For he used to praise me up like, afore the other men,
Just for my strength an' size; “But I tell thee what,” says he,
“Theer inna but few as'd care for a noggen wench like thee!”
Aye, an' it's truth; an' I know, sir, it's all along o' you,
As I have got work at last, what a noggen wench can do.

Marry, I canna say much; an' I wouldna speak too free
Wi' thankin' you for all you ha' done in gettin' a place for me;
But you know'd what I was i' th' pit, sir, an' it do show a friendly mind,
To ha' took such trouble for one like me; as comes of a different kind.
Aye, a different kind I are; an' it do seem strange an' queer
Me to be reckon'd wi' indoor folk, in a kitchen like this here!
Not as I waits on 'em—no, I should never be fit for that:
But they sees me sometimes i' th' yard, or a-cleanin' the steps or what;
An' they looks me up an' down, till I welly could think they know
As I used to walk o' my hands an' feet i' the workings down below.
Eh, I could stare at them though! wi' their finikin talk an' ways,
What I niver heerd the likes on it i' the best o' my born days;
An' as for the work they set me, if I are a servant-maid,
I can yarn my wages easy enough, for it's ony a poorish trade.
Well, theer's a deal o' dirt, I know, i' biggish housen like these;
Folks a-comin' an' goin'—you med live o' yor hands an' knees:
But it's nothin' to what I've been used to, i' chimbleys an' down i' th' pit,
And though I like it well enough, I canna think much on it.
Cleanin's the job I love best; it's like water is to a duck,
Is a bout o' scrubbin', to me, sir, if I ony ha' plenty o' muck;
Stairs an' passage an' floors, I can crawl and scour 'em for hours;
An' that's the good of a wench like me, as is used to go on all fours.

Eh, what a pleasure, to kneel wi' yor two bare arms kep tight,
Stiff from the shoulders down, both hands wi' all your might
Grippin' the big floor brush, an' pressin' it down wi' a shove
Into the grain o' the boards, till the dirt begins to move!
For you drives it up an' down, as fast as your arms 'ull go,
Churning the black dirt up to mud, as yo thrusts it to an' fro,
An' of coorse the brush is soak'd i' the water out o' your pail,
An' the mud splashes up again yo like showers o' upcast hail,
Till your face is all ower black, an' your hands an' arms, an' your breast,
An' the sweat keeps pourin' off you, for you canna stop to rest,
An' you looks at your two black arms for a place, an' canna find none,
Not one clean spot o' the thick o' your arm, for to wipe your face upon!
Look at my arms, sir, now: this here's all mud off the floor,
The parlour floor, as has never bin clean'd for a good long month or more.
But the black on my face is soot, stuck on wi' sweat, like a lacquer;
An' spots o' whitewash atop of it, for to make the black look blacker.
Eh, what a beauty I are, in my dirt, as you see me now!
But I don't mind you to see me, sir, as ha' seen me so often below;
An' old Abe, he used to say, if my face could once get clean,
It 'ud look as well i' a Sunday cap as the best 'at ever was seen.
Aye, but that's nothin' to me, as nobody sees nor knows;
Though the butcher's man, as is full of his jokes, do call me a Coalblack Rose;
An' the sweep, he's a young man too, when he snatches a kiss off me,
He says he thinks as two of a trade could very well agree.
Rubbish, all that is, I know; an' I arena so old, not yet,
If I dunna light on a sweetheart, for to take on at it an' fret:
Why, I are nobbut nineteen! an' I reckon, afore very long
I'll ha' saved a good ten pound, sir, if I just keeps lucky an' strong.
Many's the sixpence I get, fro' the lodgers i' this here house:
Not as they sees me often, for I hide i' my hole like a mouse,
Been so black as I are, an' such lots o' work to do;
But they keep another as well as me, a bettermost servant too,
For to wait upstairs, an' dust an' that, at the gimcracks i' the room,
What I know no more about 'em nor the stick do o' my broom,
For I never could do in a parlour, an' carpets I seldom see,
'Cept when they've got to be shook; an' then, why they're all on'em laid on me.
But Lizzie, my fellow servant, her thinks me a rough un, I know,
An' reckons herself above me; an' so her is, for show.
Her face an' her hands is clean, an' her frock is always neat:
For why, her never scrubs nor crawls, but stands upright on her feet!
Still, her's friendly an' nice to me, though a poor soft-handed thing,
Just fit to answer the parlour-bell when the lodgers comes to ring;
An' her gives me the half what they give her, her knows I ha' no more chance
For the folks upstairs to notice me, nor a pig has o' learnin' to dance.
An' once, when a gentleman tell'd her how nicely his boots was done,
Her spoke up straight, an' said it was me, as clean'd 'em every one;
Then he give her a extry sixpence, an' “that's for the boots,” says he;
“You'll give it her when you go downstairs, an' tell her it's fro' me.”
But theer is one time, I forget, when they sees me an' I sees they:
It's when I carry their luggage to the cab, a-goin' away;
For I put a clean apron on, an' washes my face an' all,
An' runs upstairs for the boxes, an' heaves 'em down to the hall;
An' when I shoulders the trunks, my word! how the ladies stare;
An' the gentlemen gives me a shilling, an' says how strong I are.
Strong? why yes, to be sure; but that inna much to do,
Just heavin' away o' your shoulder a gentleman's trunk or two!