 | Vulgar Verses |  |
204
Susy Wilson of Brynmawr.
She laid her stiff and horny hand in mine;
And meekly, with her innocent blue eyes,
Look'd in my face, as if she would divine
Why I had wish'd to grasp so strange a prize.
And meekly, with her innocent blue eyes,
Look'd in my face, as if she would divine
Why I had wish'd to grasp so strange a prize.
Her hands were black and grimy, like her face;
But far more deeply and more throughly stain'd:
Each crack and crevice, every rough hard place,
Caught the dark dust, and evermore retain'd.
But far more deeply and more throughly stain'd:
Each crack and crevice, every rough hard place,
Caught the dark dust, and evermore retain'd.
No art could make her rugged fingers clean:
Where'er she went, and howsoe'er array'd,
She had to show—for they were always seen—
Those hands, the swarthy symbols of her trade.
Where'er she went, and howsoe'er array'd,
She had to show—for they were always seen—
Those hands, the swarthy symbols of her trade.
Gloves? She wore none; she never could have drawn
A second skin o'er such a hand as hers:
As well, protect with kid skin or with lawn
The spade she handles, or the coal she stirs!
A second skin o'er such a hand as hers:
As well, protect with kid skin or with lawn
The spade she handles, or the coal she stirs!
Her skin is tougher than the stoutest glove;
Her clumsy fingers scarce can grasp the spade:
Oh, what a hand to feel the touch of Love!
Oh, what strange fingers for a charming maid!
Her clumsy fingers scarce can grasp the spade:
Oh, what a hand to feel the touch of Love!
Oh, what strange fingers for a charming maid!
205
Sad, sad surrender of all dainty use,
All delicate beauty in a woman's hand!
Sad, sad—But oh, my Susy, why the deuce
Do you keep staring? Don't you understand?
All delicate beauty in a woman's hand!
Sad, sad—But oh, my Susy, why the deuce
Do you keep staring? Don't you understand?
No, sir, she says, I dunno what you mean,
I don't indeed! My hands is horny, sir,
An' black wi' work; they never will come clean:
But that's no stain again my character.
I don't indeed! My hands is horny, sir,
An' black wi' work; they never will come clean:
But that's no stain again my character.
Has folks spoke aught o' me behind my back?
My sweetheart is a honest lad, he is!
He dunna mind it, if my face is black,
Nor if my hands be harder far nor his.
My sweetheart is a honest lad, he is!
He dunna mind it, if my face is black,
Nor if my hands be harder far nor his.
Who is my sweetheart? Well, sir, he's a groom;
Higher nor me, an' works not half so hard:
He only drives a thing they calls a broom,
Fettles the horse, an' sweeps the stable yard.
Higher nor me, an' works not half so hard:
He only drives a thing they calls a broom,
Fettles the horse, an' sweeps the stable yard.
Eh, I'd be lucky, if such work as that
Was all I had to do! But as for him,
He knows quite well what jobs I mun be at;
He sees me at 'em often, does my Jim.
Was all I had to do! But as for him,
He knows quite well what jobs I mun be at;
He sees me at 'em often, does my Jim.
For why, he often drives along yon road;
An' when he sees me working here aloft—
Thrutchin' my corves, or keevin' of a load,
Or diggin' coals—my word, he do look soft!
An' when he sees me working here aloft—
Thrutchin' my corves, or keevin' of a load,
Or diggin' coals—my word, he do look soft!
206
Not as he ever speaks to me, of course:
That wouldna do—a chap in livery,
To let our coal-dust settle on his horse,
An' him a-talkin' to a wench like me!
That wouldna do—a chap in livery,
To let our coal-dust settle on his horse,
An' him a-talkin' to a wench like me!
No—if he hadna worked at pit hissel,
An' bin my mate, he'd think it a disgrace,
Now he ha' rose, to wed a collier-gell,
'At's naught to gie him but her grimy face.
An' bin my mate, he'd think it a disgrace,
Now he ha' rose, to wed a collier-gell,
'At's naught to gie him but her grimy face.
An' that's what I'm a-thinkin, sir, o' you,
As is my master, or my master's kin:
Why give me them outlandish words you do,
As if my hands was a'most like a sin?—
As is my master, or my master's kin:
Why give me them outlandish words you do,
As if my hands was a'most like a sin?—
O simple maid, how ignorant you are!
I never thought them sin, nor yet disgrace:
I only meant, that since you are so fair,
I wish'd your hands as comely as your face.
I never thought them sin, nor yet disgrace:
I only meant, that since you are so fair,
I wish'd your hands as comely as your face.
A foolish wish, my Susy, I confess:
Far better do your wholesome labour here,
With these strong arms, and in this fitting dress,
Than sweat indoors, or be a rich man's dear.
Far better do your wholesome labour here,
With these strong arms, and in this fitting dress,
Than sweat indoors, or be a rich man's dear.
Aye—tell your Jim I'm glad he is so true!
When this stout finger has a wedding-ring,
And Jim works harder, for himself and you,
Your hands will grow as soft as anything!
When this stout finger has a wedding-ring,
And Jim works harder, for himself and you,
Your hands will grow as soft as anything!
207
Or, if they do not, who will care for that?
Not he, not I, nor any one you know.
Love finds his food in all, no matter what,
That in Love's garden is content to grow.
Not he, not I, nor any one you know.
Love finds his food in all, no matter what,
That in Love's garden is content to grow.
Ah—there are my outlandish words again!
I must be plainer, Susy, and I will:
Look here; your work is as the work of men—
Your strength is manlike; yet I find you still
I must be plainer, Susy, and I will:
Look here; your work is as the work of men—
Your strength is manlike; yet I find you still
Modest and maidenly. You do your parts,
You and your fellows, cheerfully and well;
Hard hands you have, but you have tender hearts:
You are true women, any one can tell!
You and your fellows, cheerfully and well;
Hard hands you have, but you have tender hearts:
You are true women, any one can tell!
And as for thee, my Susy, thou art fair:
Thy face is black; but even while I speak
I see the healthful roses here and there
Glow through the darkness of thy crusted cheek.
Thy face is black; but even while I speak
I see the healthful roses here and there
Glow through the darkness of thy crusted cheek.
Aye, and thy voice is sweet and tuneable;
Thine eyes are bright; thy bearing frank and free:
If thou wert free, O Susy! who can tell
But I myself might ask to marry thee?
Thine eyes are bright; thy bearing frank and free:
If thou wert free, O Susy! who can tell
But I myself might ask to marry thee?
Then, still be fair and innocent and strong,
And be a collier still! Thy swarthy toil
Suits thee right well, and never does thee wrong:
Whate'er it soils, thy heart it cannot soil.
And be a collier still! Thy swarthy toil
Suits thee right well, and never does thee wrong:
Whate'er it soils, thy heart it cannot soil.
208
Look—thy hard fingers have begun to mend,
Freed from the horny fetters they have worn:
My clever knife has eased them and they bend;
So, Susy, for your sake, I'll keep the horn.
Freed from the horny fetters they have worn:
My clever knife has eased them and they bend;
So, Susy, for your sake, I'll keep the horn.
| Vulgar Verses | |