 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
548
MIRREN
She was but a maid of all work,
For she could not bear to see
Idle sluts about her kitchen
Slopping tables with their tea;
And besides, she had a habit
Of speaking out her mind
Which might not look respectful
If another stood behind;
For she'd scold a wasteful mistress
Very roundly to her face,
But would not let another
Think a thought to her disgrace.
For she could not bear to see
Idle sluts about her kitchen
Slopping tables with their tea;
And besides, she had a habit
Of speaking out her mind
Which might not look respectful
If another stood behind;
For she'd scold a wasteful mistress
Very roundly to her face,
But would not let another
Think a thought to her disgrace.
She had seen her fifty winters,
But was always trim and tight
In her printed cotton bodice,
And her apron clean and white:
Never knew her head a bonnet,
But a cap of muslin thin
With a bit of simple ribbon
Tied in bows beneath her chin:
And her features, small and puckered,
Looking tempery and tart,
Did not truly tell the secret
Of her true and faithful heart.
But was always trim and tight
In her printed cotton bodice,
And her apron clean and white:
Never knew her head a bonnet,
But a cap of muslin thin
With a bit of simple ribbon
Tied in bows beneath her chin:
And her features, small and puckered,
Looking tempery and tart,
Did not truly tell the secret
Of her true and faithful heart.
All the folk that did not know her—
And there were not many did,
For her faults were somewhat patent,
And her virtues mainly hid—
Much disliked her prim preciseness,
And her stiff unchanging ways,
And the tartness of her sayings,
And the scrimpness of her praise.
But the children, whom she rated
If their boots had soiled her floor,
Knew how fain she was to cheer them,
When their little hearts were sore.
And there were not many did,
For her faults were somewhat patent,
And her virtues mainly hid—
Much disliked her prim preciseness,
And her stiff unchanging ways,
And the tartness of her sayings,
And the scrimpness of her praise.
But the children, whom she rated
If their boots had soiled her floor,
Knew how fain she was to cheer them,
When their little hearts were sore.
She had never left the city,
Rarely seen the growing corn,
Never been a five-miles' journey
From the spot where she was born,
Never voyaged in a steamboat,
Never travelled by the mail,
And nothing could persuade her
To go jaunting on the rail.
But she knew the streets and closes,
And the harbour and the boats,
And the kindly fishers' houses,
And their creels and nets and floats.
Rarely seen the growing corn,
Never been a five-miles' journey
From the spot where she was born,
Never voyaged in a steamboat,
Never travelled by the mail,
And nothing could persuade her
To go jaunting on the rail.
But she knew the streets and closes,
And the harbour and the boats,
And the kindly fishers' houses,
And their creels and nets and floats.
And all the grand old mansions
Where the gentry once did dwell,
With their cork-screw stairs and turrets,
And their chambers panelled well,
And the stately Lords and Ladies
Who had ridden from their doors,
And the fateful tragic dramas
Oft enacted on their floors,—
She could tell you stories of them,
Till a feeling in you woke
That the nobles must have sorrows
Not allowed to common folk.
Where the gentry once did dwell,
With their cork-screw stairs and turrets,
And their chambers panelled well,
And the stately Lords and Ladies
Who had ridden from their doors,
And the fateful tragic dramas
Oft enacted on their floors,—
She could tell you stories of them,
Till a feeling in you woke
That the nobles must have sorrows
Not allowed to common folk.
Going weekly to the market,
You might safely trust her care
Not to squander one halfpenny
Of your thrifty monies there;
She would have the best and cheapest,
Yet she would not chaffer long;
They might cheat a young housekeeper,
But they feared her caustic tongue;
Nor would she for a moment
Linger in the sun or rain;
She had gone to do her business,
And must home to work again.
You might safely trust her care
Not to squander one halfpenny
Of your thrifty monies there;
She would have the best and cheapest,
Yet she would not chaffer long;
They might cheat a young housekeeper,
But they feared her caustic tongue;
Nor would she for a moment
Linger in the sun or rain;
She had gone to do her business,
And must home to work again.
Going weekly to the Kirk too,
Be the Sunday dry or wet,
With her Bible in her kerchief,
And her features primly set,
There she sat in tireless patience,
Thinking less about her sin
Than about her common duties,
And the frets she had therein,
Not unpleased that she had done them
With some credit to herself,
And with visions of her saucepans
All in order on their shelf.
Be the Sunday dry or wet,
With her Bible in her kerchief,
And her features primly set,
There she sat in tireless patience,
Thinking less about her sin
Than about her common duties,
And the frets she had therein,
Not unpleased that she had done them
With some credit to herself,
And with visions of her saucepans
All in order on their shelf.
549
One day she told her mistress,
She must find another maid:
No, she had no fault to find with
Any thing they did or said,
And she was not like the fickle
Fools that wanted just a change,
Nor did she much rebel at
That new-fangled kitchen range;
And she had not made her mind up
To take a place or no;
There was nothing she was sure of,
Only just that she must go.
She must find another maid:
No, she had no fault to find with
Any thing they did or said,
And she was not like the fickle
Fools that wanted just a change,
Nor did she much rebel at
That new-fangled kitchen range;
And she had not made her mind up
To take a place or no;
There was nothing she was sure of,
Only just that she must go.
Plainly there was something hidden;
There was mystery in her look;
But she pursed her lips, and held it
Tight as in a close-sealed book.
They wist not, when she left them,
What had wiled her thus away,
Puzzling over it, and guessing
Twenty different things a day;
They were angry, for they missed her,
Nothing seeming to go smooth;
But the pathos of it touched them,
When they came to know the truth.
There was mystery in her look;
But she pursed her lips, and held it
Tight as in a close-sealed book.
They wist not, when she left them,
What had wiled her thus away,
Puzzling over it, and guessing
Twenty different things a day;
They were angry, for they missed her,
Nothing seeming to go smooth;
But the pathos of it touched them,
When they came to know the truth.
She had served a gentlewoman,
When they both were fresh and young;
They had smiled and sighed together,
And together wept and sung.
Proud was Mirren of her mistress
While her beauty was in bud,
Yet prouder to remember
She was come of gentle blood,
Having Lords to her forefathers,
With Ladies by their side,
And loves and wars to tell of,
And tragic tales to hide.
When they both were fresh and young;
They had smiled and sighed together,
And together wept and sung.
Proud was Mirren of her mistress
While her beauty was in bud,
Yet prouder to remember
She was come of gentle blood,
Having Lords to her forefathers,
With Ladies by their side,
And loves and wars to tell of,
And tragic tales to hide.
But the lady, when her beauty
'Gan to have a faded look,
Mated with a man beneath her,
Which her handmaid could not brook.
Why could she not live single?
Maidenhood was clean and sweet;
If wed she must, why pick him
From the gutter on the street?
She had never served but gentles
And she trowed she never would,
So they quarrelled, and they parted.
Both of them in angry mood.
'Gan to have a faded look,
Mated with a man beneath her,
Which her handmaid could not brook.
Why could she not live single?
Maidenhood was clean and sweet;
If wed she must, why pick him
From the gutter on the street?
She had never served but gentles
And she trowed she never would,
So they quarrelled, and they parted.
Both of them in angry mood.
And the lady had her wedding,
Though a stranger dressed her hair.
And a hand she had not proven
Robed her in her garments fair.
But the marriage-bed was barren,
And the wedded life was shame,
For he wasted all her substance,
And he soiled a noble name;
Till friendless and forsaken,
With a hot and fevered eye,
In weariness and sickness
She prayed that she might die.
Though a stranger dressed her hair.
And a hand she had not proven
Robed her in her garments fair.
But the marriage-bed was barren,
And the wedded life was shame,
For he wasted all her substance,
And he soiled a noble name;
Till friendless and forsaken,
With a hot and fevered eye,
In weariness and sickness
She prayed that she might die.
But as she sat despairing
The door was opened wide,
Then closed again in silence,
And one stood by her side,
As of old so trim and tidy,
As of old with bodice bright,
With the dainty cap of muslin,
And the apron clean and white;
As of old so peppery tempered,
As of old so prim and tart;
But also underneath it
Lay the old, true, faithful heart.
The door was opened wide,
Then closed again in silence,
And one stood by her side,
As of old so trim and tidy,
As of old with bodice bright,
With the dainty cap of muslin,
And the apron clean and white;
As of old so peppery tempered,
As of old so prim and tart;
But also underneath it
Lay the old, true, faithful heart.
And she pushed a bag of something
Right into the lady's hand,
Saying, “Not a word, Miss Elsie,
It is by the Lord's command;
I've been toiling, scrimping, saving,
Till my bones and joints would ache,
And I've put my soul in peril
All for filthy lucre's sake.
Save me now from that temptation,
Give my soul a chance of life,
For I've just been self-deceiving,
Though I have been no man's wife.
Right into the lady's hand,
Saying, “Not a word, Miss Elsie,
It is by the Lord's command;
I've been toiling, scrimping, saving,
Till my bones and joints would ache,
And I've put my soul in peril
All for filthy lucre's sake.
Save me now from that temptation,
Give my soul a chance of life,
For I've just been self-deceiving,
Though I have been no man's wife.
“Now get you to the parlour,
This is not the place for you,
I am mistress of my kitchen,
And I have my work to do;
Take your seat beside the window;
There you'll see the breezy bay,
And the brown sails of the fishers
Dipping in the white sea-spray,
And the children pulling seaweed,
And the old man gathering bait,
And lads the old boats mending
That are in a leaky state,
And the lighthouse on the skerry,
And the red lamp on the pier,
And the lass that's always waiting
For the ship that comes not here.
This is not the place for you,
I am mistress of my kitchen,
And I have my work to do;
550
There you'll see the breezy bay,
And the brown sails of the fishers
Dipping in the white sea-spray,
And the children pulling seaweed,
And the old man gathering bait,
And lads the old boats mending
That are in a leaky state,
And the lighthouse on the skerry,
And the red lamp on the pier,
And the lass that's always waiting
For the ship that comes not here.
“Oh, you'll never weary watching
The ships that come and go,
Or to hear the sailors singing
As they turn the capstan slow;
Some are bound for far Archangel,
Some for Greenland's snow and ice,
Some, it's likely, for a harbour
In the land of Paradise.
But the hand of God is o'er them,
And behind them and before,
And the gate of Heaven as near them
On the sea as on the shore.
The ships that come and go,
Or to hear the sailors singing
As they turn the capstan slow;
Some are bound for far Archangel,
Some for Greenland's snow and ice,
Some, it's likely, for a harbour
In the land of Paradise.
But the hand of God is o'er them,
And behind them and before,
And the gate of Heaven as near them
On the sea as on the shore.
“O my bonnie, sweet Miss Elsie,
My blessing and my care,
You'll break my heart now, sitting
With that look of hard despair;
Rouse ye up, there's work to do yet,
And peace for you to win,
And the web of life is never
Only sorrow warped with sin.
There's sunshine in the rain-cloud,
And heat in wreaths of snow,
And God's love is in all things
That happen here below.”
My blessing and my care,
You'll break my heart now, sitting
With that look of hard despair;
Rouse ye up, there's work to do yet,
And peace for you to win,
And the web of life is never
Only sorrow warped with sin.
There's sunshine in the rain-cloud,
And heat in wreaths of snow,
And God's love is in all things
That happen here below.”
So Mirren pleaded fondly,
And her plea prevailed at last,
And they lived together loving,
As they had done in the past.
The lady broidered garments,
Or darned the dainty lace,
Which her handmaid washed as no one
Could wash in all the place;
And if their fare was scanty,
No eye was there to see,
As they held themselves aloof still
In the pride of poverty.
And her plea prevailed at last,
And they lived together loving,
As they had done in the past.
The lady broidered garments,
Or darned the dainty lace,
Which her handmaid washed as no one
Could wash in all the place;
And if their fare was scanty,
No eye was there to see,
As they held themselves aloof still
In the pride of poverty.
Trim was still the lady's raiment,
Never seeming to grow worse,
And she never lacked the glitter
Of a gold-piece in her purse;
And on the Bishop's visit
She could give him rare old tea—
For of course she went to Chapel
Duly with the Quality.
The Bishop for her lady
Was the fitting minister;
But the Kirk was still to Mirren
The house of God for her.
Never seeming to grow worse,
And she never lacked the glitter
Of a gold-piece in her purse;
And on the Bishop's visit
She could give him rare old tea—
For of course she went to Chapel
Duly with the Quality.
The Bishop for her lady
Was the fitting minister;
But the Kirk was still to Mirren
The house of God for her.
So the weeks went by in patience,
And the Sabbaths brought their peace,
And the years sped lightly o'er them,
Though their labours did not cease;
And in the summer mornings
They saw the sun rise red,
And the sea a golden pavement,
Whereon his feet might tread;
And in the winter evenings
O'er their needles and their frames
They told most tragic stories
Of the old-world knights and dames.
And the Sabbaths brought their peace,
And the years sped lightly o'er them,
Though their labours did not cease;
And in the summer mornings
They saw the sun rise red,
And the sea a golden pavement,
Whereon his feet might tread;
And in the winter evenings
O'er their needles and their frames
They told most tragic stories
Of the old-world knights and dames.
And their way of life was tranquil,
And their thoughts were pure and sweet,
And the poor that lived beside them
Thought the better of the street,
When the gentry came to see them,
And the great world, in the pride
Of its carriages and horses,
Drew the children to its side;
Though a grander world was inside
If they had but eyes to see
The faith and love that dwelt there,
And true-hearted piety.
And their thoughts were pure and sweet,
And the poor that lived beside them
Thought the better of the street,
When the gentry came to see them,
And the great world, in the pride
Of its carriages and horses,
Drew the children to its side;
Though a grander world was inside
If they had but eyes to see
The faith and love that dwelt there,
And true-hearted piety.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |