University of Virginia Library

Part I.

When Darby saw the setting sun
He swung his scythe, and home he run,
Sat down, drank off his quart, and said,
“My work is done, I'll go to bed.”
“My work is done!” retorted Joan,
“My work is done! your constant tone;
“But hapless woman ne'er can say,
“My work is done, till judgment-day.
“You men can sleep all night, but we
“Must toil.”—“Whose fault is that?” quoth he.
“I know your meaning,” Joan replied,
“But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied;
“I will go on, and let you know
“What work poor women have to do:
“First, in the morning, though we feel
“As sick as drunkards when they reel;
“Yes, feel such pains in back and head
“As would confine you men to bed,
“We ply the brush, we wield the broom,
“We air the beds, and right the room;
“The cows must next be milk'd—and then
“We get the breakfast for the men.
“Ere this is done, with whimpering cries,
“And bristly hair, the children rise;
“These must be dress'd, and dos'd with rue,
“And fed—and all because of you:
“We next”—Here Darby scratch'd his head,
And stole off grumbling to his bed;
And only said, as on she run,
“Zounds! woman's clack is never done.”

Part II.

At early dawn, ere Phœbus rose,
Old Joan resum'd her tale of woes;
When Darby thus—“I'll end the strife,
“Be you the man and I the wife:
“Take you the scythe and mow, while I
“Will all your boasted cares supply.”
“Content, quoth Joan, give me my stint.”
This Darby did, and out she went.
Old Darby rose and seiz'd the broom,
And whirl'd the dirt about the room:
Which having done, he scarce knew how,
He hied to milk the brindled cow.
The brindled cow whisk'd round her tail
In Darby's eyes, and kick'd the pail.
The clown, perplex'd with grief and pain,
Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again:
When turning round, in sad amaze,
He saw his cottage in a blaze:
For as he chanc'd to brush the room
In careless haste, he fir'd the broom.
The fire at last subdu'd, he swore
The broom and he would meet no more,
Press'd by misfortune, and perplex'd,
Darby prepar'd for breakfast next;
But what to get he scarcely knew—
The bread was spent, the butter too.
His hands bedaub'd with paste and flour,
Old Darby labour'd full an hour:
But, luckless wight! thou couldst not make
The bread take form of loaf or cake.
As every door wide open stood,
In push'd the sow in quest of food;
And, stumbling onwards, with her snout
O'erset the chum—the cream ran out.
As Darby turn'd, the sow to beat,
The slipp'ry cream betray'd his feet;
He caught the bread trough in his fall,
And down came Darby, trough and all.
The children, waken'd by the clatter,
Start up, and cry, “Oh! what's the matter?”
Old Jowler bark'd, and Tabby mew'd,
And hapless Darby bawl'd aloud,
“Return, my Joan, as heretofore,
“I'll play the housewife's part no more:
“Since now, by sad experience taught,
“Compar'd to thine my work is naught;
“Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take,
“Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake,
“And never more transgress the line
“Our fates have mark'd, while thou art mine:
“Then Joan, return, as heretofore,
“I'll vex thy honest soul no more;
“Let's each our proper task attend—
“Forgive the past, and strive to mend.”