University of Virginia Library

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!