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.