 | Vulgar Verses |  |
1
The Heroine.
Ah, we all know very well that a heroine ought to be charming;
She whom the hero loves ought to be dainty and fair:
Never robust, if tall; nor in anywise strong or alarming,
Save in her powers of mind: yes, she may startle him there!
She whom the hero loves ought to be dainty and fair:
Never robust, if tall; nor in anywise strong or alarming,
Save in her powers of mind: yes, she may startle him there!
Nay, she must vie with him there; or else the devices of Cupid,
Leading him on to his fate, surely would all be in vain:
If she were silent and glum, or ignorant haply and stupid,
He would be off in a trice—never come near her again!
Leading him on to his fate, surely would all be in vain:
If she were silent and glum, or ignorant haply and stupid,
He would be off in a trice—never come near her again!
As for her person, of course she must always be graceful and slender,
Form'd in a delicate mould, hued like the lily and rose;
Features and figure and limbs all soft and supple and tender;
Yes, from the soles of her feet up to the tip of her nose.
Form'd in a delicate mould, hued like the lily and rose;
Features and figure and limbs all soft and supple and tender;
Yes, from the soles of her feet up to the tip of her nose.
Chiefly, whoever she be, she is bound to have beautiful shoulders,
Beautiful hands and arms, white as the virginal snow;
Fingers of roseate tint, that dazzle the ravish'd beholders
Watching them over the keys moving adroitly a-row.
Beautiful hands and arms, white as the virginal snow;
Fingers of roseate tint, that dazzle the ravish'd beholders
Watching them over the keys moving adroitly a-row.
Then too, her dress; dear me, how the maids and the milliners love it!
Marvels of fancy and taste, obvious to all but the blind:
Simplex munditiis might do—but Fashion must prove it
True to her standard of right, newest and best of its kind.
Marvels of fancy and taste, obvious to all but the blind:
Simplex munditiis might do—but Fashion must prove it
True to her standard of right, newest and best of its kind.
2
Such then, so splendid and fair, is the Heroine; seen in a novel,
Seen in a poem or play, known at a dinner, a ball:
Were she unhappily born but a peasant, and rear'd in a hovel,
She must come out of all that, ere we can know her at all.
Seen in a poem or play, known at a dinner, a ball:
Were she unhappily born but a peasant, and rear'd in a hovel,
She must come out of all that, ere we can know her at all.
Though she have lien among pots, she must rise in your very first chapter
Clad in her silver wings, dight with her feathers of gold;
Flinging for ever away the servile garb that had wrapt her;
Soaring with infinite grace out of her labours of old.
Clad in her silver wings, dight with her feathers of gold;
Flinging for ever away the servile garb that had wrapt her;
Soaring with infinite grace out of her labours of old.
Ah, we can see at a glance, though she be but a rustical maiden,
When at the cottage-door waiting her hero she stands,
She will not bide there long, with household drudgery laden,
Sweeping the homely floors, soiling her exquisite hands!
When at the cottage-door waiting her hero she stands,
She will not bide there long, with household drudgery laden,
Sweeping the homely floors, soiling her exquisite hands!
Soon shall the hero come, and call her “away from her slaving,”
Make her a lady at once, give her his dignified name:
And in the shops ere long her portrait, a lovely engraving,
Shows she has won for herself freedom, and fortune, and fame.
Make her a lady at once, give her his dignified name:
And in the shops ere long her portrait, a lovely engraving,
Shows she has won for herself freedom, and fortune, and fame.
3
Queen Kara.
Cupassis was a negress and a slave:
A negress—but of that far nobler type
The Gallas, round whose comely foreheads wave
Long silken tresses, glossy as the ripe
Black plum that mellows on a garden wall.
Such tresses had Cupassis; not unmeet
To match the fairest maidens of them all
That in the West are counted fair and sweet.
But this sad slave, could any call her fair,
Through whose dark cheek no blush could ever rise,
Nor her full lips the ruddy roses bear
That take love's kiss; nor yet her lustrous eyes
Reveal within their veil'd dejected orbs
A life that was not there? For slavery,
In negro or in odalisque, absorbs
The fine and feminine graces of the eye,
And leaves but terror, or such looks whose law
Is just a master's pleasure. Sadder still
Her lot, who like Cupassis, holds in awe
A mistress, not a master: her meek will
May serve, indeed, submissive and obscure,
A female owner; but she lives debarr'd
From Nature's sanction: whose decree is sure,—
And even a slave, obeying, finds reward—
That Woman still should mould herself to Man,
And not to Woman. Masculine regard
Is hers by right, for blessing or for ban.
But, what regard has yon barbaric Queen
That owns Cupassis, for the Galla maid,
Whose ample hair she envies, and whose mien
The coarsest labours cannot quite degrade?
Ah, well for such an one, her sootier hue
May please an arrogant mistress, who enjoys
The dear delight of tyrants—to renew
A daily triumph o'er her human toys:
Contrasting with the blackness of the slave
Her own superior bronze. So, evermore
When the brown Queen their solemn audience gave
To strangers, naked on the yellow floor
Cupassis lay, face downwards, still and prone;
A footstool, not a woman: and the Dame
On that black footstool laid her feet, that shone
With precious unguents, and the constant flame
Of sunshine on her golden ankle-rings.
Thus for long hours that hapless creature lay,
As unregarded as the basest things
That serve our need and then are toss'd away.
And when the Queen went forth among her folk
To feast or council, riding daintily
In softest palanquin, poised like a yoke
On tall men's shoulders—men erect and free,
Her noble guard, the slave Cupassis there
Knelt on all fours, that so upon her back
The full-fed Queen might step into her chair.
Such, and so abject, was the daily track
Of this poor maiden's life: in all the crowd
Of slaves, she was the lowest and the last;
For not Queen Kara only, but the proud
Sleek youths and ladies of the princely caste,
And chiefs, and chieftains' wives, and even the fat
Familiar slaves that stood behind the throne,
Had leave to use her body as a mat,
A stool, a step, whene'er they needed one.
And she? She was contented with her lot:
Long usage, and the tyranny of years,
Had bow'd her spirit; and she heeded not
Indignities that might have drawn hot tears
From duller eyes than hers. She felt no shame
In degradation, for she never knew
That she had been degraded; the bright flame
Of quick vivacious girlhood never flew
Up from her smother'd heart, that smoulder'd on
Unconscious of itself. How should she know
What women's hearts have suffer'd and have done,
Who scarcely seem'd a woman, living so
Upon a level with the brutes, or lower?
Yes, lower: other animals are sure
Of life and work according to their power,
And she was but a piece of furniture;
Used in its turn, then kept for use again.
A negress—but of that far nobler type
The Gallas, round whose comely foreheads wave
Long silken tresses, glossy as the ripe
Black plum that mellows on a garden wall.
Such tresses had Cupassis; not unmeet
To match the fairest maidens of them all
That in the West are counted fair and sweet.
But this sad slave, could any call her fair,
Through whose dark cheek no blush could ever rise,
Nor her full lips the ruddy roses bear
That take love's kiss; nor yet her lustrous eyes
Reveal within their veil'd dejected orbs
A life that was not there? For slavery,
In negro or in odalisque, absorbs
The fine and feminine graces of the eye,
And leaves but terror, or such looks whose law
Is just a master's pleasure. Sadder still
Her lot, who like Cupassis, holds in awe
A mistress, not a master: her meek will
May serve, indeed, submissive and obscure,
A female owner; but she lives debarr'd
From Nature's sanction: whose decree is sure,—
And even a slave, obeying, finds reward—
4
And not to Woman. Masculine regard
Is hers by right, for blessing or for ban.
But, what regard has yon barbaric Queen
That owns Cupassis, for the Galla maid,
Whose ample hair she envies, and whose mien
The coarsest labours cannot quite degrade?
Ah, well for such an one, her sootier hue
May please an arrogant mistress, who enjoys
The dear delight of tyrants—to renew
A daily triumph o'er her human toys:
Contrasting with the blackness of the slave
Her own superior bronze. So, evermore
When the brown Queen their solemn audience gave
To strangers, naked on the yellow floor
Cupassis lay, face downwards, still and prone;
A footstool, not a woman: and the Dame
On that black footstool laid her feet, that shone
With precious unguents, and the constant flame
Of sunshine on her golden ankle-rings.
Thus for long hours that hapless creature lay,
As unregarded as the basest things
That serve our need and then are toss'd away.
And when the Queen went forth among her folk
To feast or council, riding daintily
In softest palanquin, poised like a yoke
On tall men's shoulders—men erect and free,
Her noble guard, the slave Cupassis there
Knelt on all fours, that so upon her back
The full-fed Queen might step into her chair.
5
Of this poor maiden's life: in all the crowd
Of slaves, she was the lowest and the last;
For not Queen Kara only, but the proud
Sleek youths and ladies of the princely caste,
And chiefs, and chieftains' wives, and even the fat
Familiar slaves that stood behind the throne,
Had leave to use her body as a mat,
A stool, a step, whene'er they needed one.
And she? She was contented with her lot:
Long usage, and the tyranny of years,
Had bow'd her spirit; and she heeded not
Indignities that might have drawn hot tears
From duller eyes than hers. She felt no shame
In degradation, for she never knew
That she had been degraded; the bright flame
Of quick vivacious girlhood never flew
Up from her smother'd heart, that smoulder'd on
Unconscious of itself. How should she know
What women's hearts have suffer'd and have done,
Who scarcely seem'd a woman, living so
Upon a level with the brutes, or lower?
Yes, lower: other animals are sure
Of life and work according to their power,
And she was but a piece of furniture;
Used in its turn, then kept for use again.
Yet, she was human; though Queen Kara's maids—
Lithe damsels, whose smooth skins were dyed in grain
With lovely patterns, and whose unctuous braids
Of woolly hair stood forth like aureoles
Round their low foreheads, had been shock'd indeed
To know that she own'd kindred with their souls
(If souls they had) and with their better breed.
And once, when she stood idle in the sun,
Fondling the wasted treasure of her hair
With harmless hands, till haply any one
Should give her orders, bidding her prepare
Her back for some new burden,—suddenly
A youth who served the Chief of Gambaroo
Came near and saw her: he too was not free;
He was a soldier in the retinue
Of that far Lord; a soldier, and a slave—
A negro: and the sight of those strange charms,
Her tresses, flowing like an ample wave
Round her swart shoulders and her ebon arms,
Aroused him, and he smiled, and spoke to her—
Spoke tenderly, as to a tender maid.
Cupassis in her bosom felt a stir
Of strange delight; but she was sore afraid:
She knew he could not know her—could not know
Her mean estate, and what she was indeed;
Else he had surely never spoken so
To one like her: and, taking little heed
Of what she did, she lifted up her face
And look'd at him. Such awe and mild surprise
Was in her looks, as lent an added grace
To her meek mouth and soft submissive eyes;
But on her cheeks and o'er her level brows
The brand that all Queen Kara's cattle bore
Was mark'd threefold: she with the herded cows
And wandering swine was reckon'd, and no more.
So much a part of her those symbols were,
So many folk had seen them, and so long,
That she had quite forgot the brand was there;
But he beheld that ignominious wrong,
And knew its meaning: he had often seen
Queen Kara's branded cattle on the way:
And seeing her so branded, he had been
More than his people, greater far than they,
If he had cared to seek another glance
From those large eyes. He never look'd again
Upon her sad and gentle countenance;
But turn'd, and saw not even the look of pain
That did express her new-found misery.
For she, perceiving that two little tears
Out of her eyes had crept unwittingly,
Put up her hand; and as a sentry hears
The sound of foes, and ere his quick alarm
Finds tongue, an arrow rattles on his helm
And startles him with certainty of harm:
So her did swift assurance overwhelm
And throughly startle, when her lifted hand,
That only thought to wipe away her tears,
Felt on each cheek the scar of that broad brand.
There was no longer room for doubts and fears;
She knew why he had scorn'd her. For the scorn,
It was as nothing—she was used to it,
And, from another, it were lightly borne:
But he, who now for once had thought her fit
To speak to and to smile on—such an one
To leave her thus! Alas, she had to learn
Unconsciously, that Love had come and gone,
And never, surely never, would return.
No—not with him: for, when she saw him next,
'Twas at the farewell audience of that chief
His master; and Queen Kara, something vext
With trifles of the moment, found relief
In stamping on the stool beneath her feet—
Which was Cupassis. On the prostrate maid
He look'd not; could a soldier stoop to greet
So vile a thing, and so ignobly laid
Before him? And perhaps he never knew
That it was she; for, o'er the living stool
A carpet from the looms of Gambaroo
Lay spread, in token that Queen Kara's rule
Was own'd and honour'd there. Yet, through its folds
Did sad Cupassis peep with fearful gaze
Along the floor; where nothing she beholds
Save human feet, a thick and thronging maze
To her not all unmeaning: for she sees,
Or thinks she sees, that soldier's sandals there.
Then is she glad, to be on hands and knees
Beneath the carpet, in so close a lair
That strangers scarce could see her. Yet, ah yet,
She wish'd she could look up; she long'd to know
If he were looking down, and could forget
What he had seen—perchance was seeing now—
And some day, some sweet day, again behave
To her as to an equal. Foolish thing!
She knew 'twas death, for such a common slave
As she, to let her eyes go wandering,
In such a presence, even along the ground;
How much more, if her vagrant looks were seen
Raised to the face of man! But those around
Were busy with their duties to the Queen;
They took no heed of her, who furtive gazed
Until that stranger's sandals bore away
Their unseen owner, and the sunshine blazed
Through the tent door, and all the languid day
Was roused with clang of cymbals and of drums
That spake farewell to distant Gambaroo.
But now, as to the meanest creature comes
Respite at last from what it has to do,
So came it to Cupassis, when she feels
Queen Kara's weight full planted on her back
A moment, ere those restless royal heels
Descend upon the dais; which did crack
And strain, beneath her massive majesty.
But when the Queen had gone, with all her suite
Of nobles, and her household bond and free,
The wardrobe menials enter'd, to complete
That change of scene. The dais and the throne
They stripp'd, and bore the throne itself away—
Their sovereign's gift: for she was never known
On days of audience such as this high day,
To use the same seat twice. And then they flung
Her cushions, threaded with Arabian gold,
And plump with feathers, in soft heaps among
The rugs and tiger-skins; and fold by fold
They loosed the hangings; and with brisk ado
Descending on the meaner furniture,
They stripp'd Cupassis of her carpet, too,
And left her free to rise, and so make sure
She was not all inanimate. She rose,
Unnoticed even by her fellow slaves,
And stretch'd her weary limbs, and sought repose
In action: swinging with alternate waves
Her stiffen'd arms, and writhing to and fro
The trodden muscles of her back and loins.
Then did she glide away, and meekly go
Home to her hovel, in a yard that joins
The shambles to the quarter of the slaves.
There dwelt she, not uncared for though alone:
The meanest thing that pride or pleasure craves
For service of a palace and a throne,
Must still be fit to serve; and she was fit:
She fed at ease, as other cattle do;
She had her sleep o' nights, and valued it,
From midnight till the morning conches blew
Their summons to the household: every way
Her strong full limbs were fatted, and she tried
Her best, obedient creature! to display
In sleek and shining suppleness, that hide
Whereon a royal mistress deign'd to tread.
But now, through the low doorway of her hut
She crawl'd, and flung herself upon the bed
Of reeds, beside the distant River cut,
Long since, and moulded to her sleeping form
By months of pressure; there she lay, and ate
The ready mess of rice that stood there, warm
And soft and succulent; for neither plate
Nor spoon she needed, at that simple meal;
Her lips and hands sufficed her: furthermore
She lick'd the emptied bowl, and with her heel
She sent it spinning through the open door,
Expectant of another bye and bye.
Ah, happy slave, whose wants are all supplied,
And are so few, that stern Authority
In giving what may scarcely be denied
To any brute, can satisfy them all!
No food, but this; no shelter from the throngs
Of folk, except a kennel or a stall;
No garments, save her girdle with its thongs,
And that brass-studded collar of a slave
Which, more than naked limbs or branded face,
Reveals a lot as hopeless as the grave.
But she, who had no feeling of disgrace,
She was not hopeless: all her tranquil mind
Was full of little hopes; the hope of food,
Of pleasing those who else might be unkind
Or cruel towards her, if she were not good;
And sometimes too (for such a fount, it seems,
Can “spring eternal in the human breast”)
A little hope of love. When, in her dreams,
She feign'd herself a woman like the rest,
That fancy came—and vanish'd with the morn.
Lithe damsels, whose smooth skins were dyed in grain
6
Of woolly hair stood forth like aureoles
Round their low foreheads, had been shock'd indeed
To know that she own'd kindred with their souls
(If souls they had) and with their better breed.
And once, when she stood idle in the sun,
Fondling the wasted treasure of her hair
With harmless hands, till haply any one
Should give her orders, bidding her prepare
Her back for some new burden,—suddenly
A youth who served the Chief of Gambaroo
Came near and saw her: he too was not free;
He was a soldier in the retinue
Of that far Lord; a soldier, and a slave—
A negro: and the sight of those strange charms,
Her tresses, flowing like an ample wave
Round her swart shoulders and her ebon arms,
Aroused him, and he smiled, and spoke to her—
Spoke tenderly, as to a tender maid.
Cupassis in her bosom felt a stir
Of strange delight; but she was sore afraid:
She knew he could not know her—could not know
Her mean estate, and what she was indeed;
Else he had surely never spoken so
To one like her: and, taking little heed
Of what she did, she lifted up her face
And look'd at him. Such awe and mild surprise
Was in her looks, as lent an added grace
To her meek mouth and soft submissive eyes;
But on her cheeks and o'er her level brows
7
Was mark'd threefold: she with the herded cows
And wandering swine was reckon'd, and no more.
So much a part of her those symbols were,
So many folk had seen them, and so long,
That she had quite forgot the brand was there;
But he beheld that ignominious wrong,
And knew its meaning: he had often seen
Queen Kara's branded cattle on the way:
And seeing her so branded, he had been
More than his people, greater far than they,
If he had cared to seek another glance
From those large eyes. He never look'd again
Upon her sad and gentle countenance;
But turn'd, and saw not even the look of pain
That did express her new-found misery.
For she, perceiving that two little tears
Out of her eyes had crept unwittingly,
Put up her hand; and as a sentry hears
The sound of foes, and ere his quick alarm
Finds tongue, an arrow rattles on his helm
And startles him with certainty of harm:
So her did swift assurance overwhelm
And throughly startle, when her lifted hand,
That only thought to wipe away her tears,
Felt on each cheek the scar of that broad brand.
There was no longer room for doubts and fears;
She knew why he had scorn'd her. For the scorn,
It was as nothing—she was used to it,
And, from another, it were lightly borne:
8
To speak to and to smile on—such an one
To leave her thus! Alas, she had to learn
Unconsciously, that Love had come and gone,
And never, surely never, would return.
No—not with him: for, when she saw him next,
'Twas at the farewell audience of that chief
His master; and Queen Kara, something vext
With trifles of the moment, found relief
In stamping on the stool beneath her feet—
Which was Cupassis. On the prostrate maid
He look'd not; could a soldier stoop to greet
So vile a thing, and so ignobly laid
Before him? And perhaps he never knew
That it was she; for, o'er the living stool
A carpet from the looms of Gambaroo
Lay spread, in token that Queen Kara's rule
Was own'd and honour'd there. Yet, through its folds
Did sad Cupassis peep with fearful gaze
Along the floor; where nothing she beholds
Save human feet, a thick and thronging maze
To her not all unmeaning: for she sees,
Or thinks she sees, that soldier's sandals there.
Then is she glad, to be on hands and knees
Beneath the carpet, in so close a lair
That strangers scarce could see her. Yet, ah yet,
She wish'd she could look up; she long'd to know
If he were looking down, and could forget
What he had seen—perchance was seeing now—
And some day, some sweet day, again behave
9
She knew 'twas death, for such a common slave
As she, to let her eyes go wandering,
In such a presence, even along the ground;
How much more, if her vagrant looks were seen
Raised to the face of man! But those around
Were busy with their duties to the Queen;
They took no heed of her, who furtive gazed
Until that stranger's sandals bore away
Their unseen owner, and the sunshine blazed
Through the tent door, and all the languid day
Was roused with clang of cymbals and of drums
That spake farewell to distant Gambaroo.
But now, as to the meanest creature comes
Respite at last from what it has to do,
So came it to Cupassis, when she feels
Queen Kara's weight full planted on her back
A moment, ere those restless royal heels
Descend upon the dais; which did crack
And strain, beneath her massive majesty.
But when the Queen had gone, with all her suite
Of nobles, and her household bond and free,
The wardrobe menials enter'd, to complete
That change of scene. The dais and the throne
They stripp'd, and bore the throne itself away—
Their sovereign's gift: for she was never known
On days of audience such as this high day,
To use the same seat twice. And then they flung
Her cushions, threaded with Arabian gold,
And plump with feathers, in soft heaps among
10
They loosed the hangings; and with brisk ado
Descending on the meaner furniture,
They stripp'd Cupassis of her carpet, too,
And left her free to rise, and so make sure
She was not all inanimate. She rose,
Unnoticed even by her fellow slaves,
And stretch'd her weary limbs, and sought repose
In action: swinging with alternate waves
Her stiffen'd arms, and writhing to and fro
The trodden muscles of her back and loins.
Then did she glide away, and meekly go
Home to her hovel, in a yard that joins
The shambles to the quarter of the slaves.
There dwelt she, not uncared for though alone:
The meanest thing that pride or pleasure craves
For service of a palace and a throne,
Must still be fit to serve; and she was fit:
She fed at ease, as other cattle do;
She had her sleep o' nights, and valued it,
From midnight till the morning conches blew
Their summons to the household: every way
Her strong full limbs were fatted, and she tried
Her best, obedient creature! to display
In sleek and shining suppleness, that hide
Whereon a royal mistress deign'd to tread.
But now, through the low doorway of her hut
She crawl'd, and flung herself upon the bed
Of reeds, beside the distant River cut,
Long since, and moulded to her sleeping form
11
The ready mess of rice that stood there, warm
And soft and succulent; for neither plate
Nor spoon she needed, at that simple meal;
Her lips and hands sufficed her: furthermore
She lick'd the emptied bowl, and with her heel
She sent it spinning through the open door,
Expectant of another bye and bye.
Ah, happy slave, whose wants are all supplied,
And are so few, that stern Authority
In giving what may scarcely be denied
To any brute, can satisfy them all!
No food, but this; no shelter from the throngs
Of folk, except a kennel or a stall;
No garments, save her girdle with its thongs,
And that brass-studded collar of a slave
Which, more than naked limbs or branded face,
Reveals a lot as hopeless as the grave.
But she, who had no feeling of disgrace,
She was not hopeless: all her tranquil mind
Was full of little hopes; the hope of food,
Of pleasing those who else might be unkind
Or cruel towards her, if she were not good;
And sometimes too (for such a fount, it seems,
Can “spring eternal in the human breast”)
A little hope of love. When, in her dreams,
She feign'd herself a woman like the rest,
That fancy came—and vanish'd with the morn.
12
But hark! Strange news, across the torrid plain
From o'er the mountain ranges swiftly borne,
Of white men from beyond the western main
Arrived, to see the Queen: herself, 'twas said,
Shall meet them on the confines of her land,
And hear them plead for traffic and for trade.
Therefore, her priests, wise men who understand
The motives of the gods, must now prepare—
By introspection of the gifts we bring,
By sacrifice, by frantic howls of prayer—
To learn the will of Heaven on this new thing.
Which when they had accomplish'd, all the wise
Gave sentence that that journey of the Queen
Shall much advance the realm; her regal eyes
Will awe the pale-faced strangers, and her mien
Compel their homage: so, returning home
Laden with spoils and tribute to her mind,
In added honour she shall surely come,
And only leave one worthless thing behind.
Thus to Queen Kara spake the ancestral gods
By those their messengers; and in brief space
Through the Queen's courtyard and the rich abodes
Of chiefs and warriors, and in every place
Where men or women meet, the rumour ran
That she, Queen Kara, at that distant bourne,
Shall meet and greet the feeble foreign man,
And take his pledge of service, and return.
From o'er the mountain ranges swiftly borne,
Of white men from beyond the western main
Arrived, to see the Queen: herself, 'twas said,
Shall meet them on the confines of her land,
And hear them plead for traffic and for trade.
Therefore, her priests, wise men who understand
The motives of the gods, must now prepare—
By introspection of the gifts we bring,
By sacrifice, by frantic howls of prayer—
To learn the will of Heaven on this new thing.
Which when they had accomplish'd, all the wise
Gave sentence that that journey of the Queen
Shall much advance the realm; her regal eyes
Will awe the pale-faced strangers, and her mien
Compel their homage: so, returning home
Laden with spoils and tribute to her mind,
In added honour she shall surely come,
And only leave one worthless thing behind.
Thus to Queen Kara spake the ancestral gods
By those their messengers; and in brief space
Through the Queen's courtyard and the rich abodes
Of chiefs and warriors, and in every place
Where men or women meet, the rumour ran
That she, Queen Kara, at that distant bourne,
Shall meet and greet the feeble foreign man,
And take his pledge of service, and return.
It was so: one bright morning did reveal
To those barbarians and their haughty Queen
The white man's presence. Soldiers clad in steel;
Strange arms, strange armour; a bewildering scene
Of martial movement: and amidst it all,
Girt with gay flags and many a gilded ring,
The fair pavilion of the Portugal,
Don Luis, envoy from that famous King.
Queen Kara, half indignant, half afraid,
Stared at the unknown throng; so wonderful,
So confident, so differently array'd
From her own people: men with heads of wool,
And knotted clubs, and spears, and o'er the breast
A shield of tiger skins; but not like those—
Not mail'd, like yonder strangers of the West.
And as she gazed, a noise of welcome rose
From the far crowd: her warriors shook their spears,
As doubting of the sound; then suddenly
They saw 'twas peace, and to the white men's ears
Sent forth a yell of warlike amity.
Then first, advancing slow with all his train
Of officers and servants, from the tent
Don Luis moved; and thrice, and thrice again,
Bow'd, with the ease of courtly compliment,
Before that dusky Queen. She, pacified
By such salute, returned it; in her way
Polite, yet bating nothing of her pride.
Then, to illustrate that auspicious day,
The white men's trumpets urged their silver tones,
And conches from Queen Kara's retinue
Gave emulous answer, as toward their thrones
They pass'd sedately, side by side—those two,
The Ethiop woman and the Aryan man,
So different; yet alike at least in this,
That either by soft courtesies did plan
To overreach the other. The abyss
That sex, race, colour, language, must have made
Betwixt them, was full easily fill'd up
By one strong motive, interest. It was Trade
Who offer'd both her many-twinkling cup
Of profit and renown; and in exchange
For ivory tusks and slaves and virgin gold
Brought marvels from the western world; the strange
And fatal gifts of Europe, manifold
In energy of vice: but most of all,
That novel weapon, which can kill from far,
With nothing deadly save a little ball;
And yet can aid the horrid charms of war,
By sulphur smoke, and such tremendous noise
As none had heard till now. Interpreters
In rapid speech convey'd the mutual joys
And ceremonious greetings, his and hers,
Until they enter'd the pavilion door
And reach'd the dais, and Don Luis bow'd
Queen Kara to her seat—upon the floor!
Upon the floor? She, petulant and proud,
Beheld with rising anger and disdain
That throne of broidered rugs, and tiger skins,
And scarlet cushions, laid for her in vain
On the broad platform: her quick eye begins
To note that his throne is not order'd thus.
What? Should he sit upon a gilded chair,
And she have no chair? 'Twas preposterous—
An insult to her state—perhaps a snare,
A symbol of submission! True, her throne
Look'd soft and fair; but she must heighten it,
Must lift it to a level with his own,
That stranger's, if she deign'd at all to sit
Here, as the white man's guest. She look'd around;
Her chiefs, her guards, her slaves, were standing by;
And near her, squatting on the lower ground,
Her meanest slave, Cupassis, patiently
Watch'd for some signal of her owner's will.
Queen Kara saw her, and with kindling eyes
That spoke as plain as words, she sent a thrill
Through that poor creature's heart, that made her rise
And reverently approach; for well she knew
She still was wanted for some service base,
Some ignominous uses ever new.
Queen Kara sternly pointed to a place
Beside the envoy; and that supple slave
Knelt down there, prone upon her hands and knees,
For well she guess'd what seat the Queen would have;
And o'er her prostrate body, draperies
Were flung, and carpets from the royal store,
Until that seat, to its due level raised,
Rivall'd the stranger's. Then and not before
Queen Kara chose to sit; and having gazed
Full on her host, she plump'd with all her weight
Upon that human stool; which quiver'd not,
Enured to such a burden. There in state
She sat at ease, and utterly forgot
The thing she sat on; listening haughtily
Whenas Don Luis, with his western smile,
Sat down beside her, eager to apply
All diplomatic craft. He did beguile
Her ears with stories of the wealth and fame
Of that great king his master; who has sent
Across wide seas, to testify the same
To all far nations, and to compliment
With peaceful tokens such as be his friends.
Then, at a sign from him, th' obsequious train
Show'd forth gay presents, which the monarch sends
To this fair Queen, the glories of whose reign
Are known right well in distant Portugal.
Fulfill'd with these, the savage woman's heart
Swell'd with new pleasure; and she too must call
Her sleek attendants, bidding them impart
Her offerings in return. Thus, what with speech
Of admiration at the gifts display'd,
And promise or persuasion, each to each,
Long time went by; and still that prostrate maid
Bore the full pressure of the ponderous Queen.
Half-smother'd by those rugs and draperies,
With crush'd and rigid limbs, she stood unseen
Upon her broaden'd hands and callous knees,
As stiff and quiet as Don Luis's chair.
No sound betray'd her presence; sob nor sigh
Nor labour'd breathing, told that she was there:
So well had she been train'd, so perfectly
Had lifelong usage taught her to endure
Her lot, that to herself she seem'd as low
And lifeless as the other furniture.
Nay, when at length Queen Kara rose to go,
And the mute slave felt lighten'd from above
And heard the voices and the order'd feet
Of those who went, she did not dare to move;
She never thought of moving. The Queen's seat,
The envoy's seat, stood empty, side by side,
Each motionless, and waiting human hands
To lift it from the dais. Far and wide
The trumpets blow once more; Don Luis stands
Bare-headed, smiling affable adieu
To the proud Queen; and in barbaric state
She with her chiefs and guards and retinue
And all her gifts, majestic and elate,
Has reach'd the wide pavilion's open doors,
When, from behind, his white-hair'd chamberlain
Approach'd the envoy. “Something of her stores
The Queen has left, and somewhat of her train:
The throne she sat on, and the slave beneath—
That crouching woman!” Turning at the words,
Don Luis saw; and hiss'd between his teeth
(For all his courtly manner scarce affords
A cloke to hide the white man's haughtiness),
“Fair Queen, you should not thus forsake your throne:
Behold it there, forgotten!” With address
As haughty and suggestive as his own,
The dame replied—nor did she turn to look
At what he show'd her—“Nothing is forgot:
My faithful people never yet forsook
My person or my goods. But know you not
Queen Kara's custom, then? She does not deign
To use the same seat twice. Yon paltry stool,
The mean memorial that here too I reign,
Is yours, or any one's: your basest fool
May use its rugs and mantles, and has leave
To own the slave beneath them.” Saying this,
She waved her hand, and bade the bearers heave
Her litter, that should take her back to bliss
Of sovereignty unquestion'd and unshared
By any white man. As she left the place,
Don Luis stood there still, and still stood bared;
But with a broadening smile upon his face
That threaten'd laughter: and he would have laugh'd,
But for the sense of office. “There she goes,”
Thought he; “a proud and heavy-laden craft
As any out of Lisbon! Ah, who knows
What I deserve, for steering one like her
Safe into harbour, with alternate skill
Of gifts to ease her, and of hopes to stir!
The litter bends beneath her weight; and still
The bearers stagger; what a monstrous load
To weigh for hours on one poor creature's back—
A woman like herself! The squatted toad!
I must release her victim, bare and black
Under the burden of another's gauds.”
With that, he call'd the white-hair'd chamberlain:
“Manuel,” said he, “Her Majesty applauds
Our grand reception; but she is so fain
Of her own rights, so careless of her slaves,
That, since we did not place her with her pride
Upon a level with myself, she waives
All title to the seat she occupied.
That seat is human and is feminine,
As you know well; and, with its costly gear,
'Tis worth your having, Manuel, or mine.
But the proud Queen thought otherwise: for hear
Her fiat—that the basest fool of ours
May have it all, and welcome! After that,
How can I offer it to you, whose powers
And place have made you like an autocrat
Over my household? Yet, when all is said,
The gear is rich; and, as myself have seen,
The slave girl under is a comely maid,
Well limb'd, well shaped, and fairly comb'd and clean,
Though blacker than an elephant. My friend,
Take her for what she is, a gift from me,
With all her trappings; if you condescend
To own a thing so abject. Set her free
From yon degrading posture, first of all;
Then, let her serve your servants, if you will,
Or tend your hogs, at home in Portugal.”
The chamberlain bow'd low; then took his fill
Of orders and instructions, ere he went
Softly—for he too was a gentleman,
And had a father's heart—into the tent,
Deserted now; and silently began
Within himself to meditate the case.
Queen Kara's seat beside the Envoy's chair
Stood empty still, and motionless: how base
Must be the creature that was hidden there
And was itself that seat! Yet Manuel knew
It was a woman: but he did not know
The cruel things that womankind can do
To women; nor how pitifully low
A slave may sink and yet be womanly.
There were no women in Don Luis' band—
Nor would he call the menfolk: he drew nigh
Alone, to where that monstrous heap did stand
Of rugs and shawls; discreetly, one by one,
He flung them off, until, below the heap,
He found the solid framework of that throne—
The slave Cupassis. She was fast asleep,
Or so she seem'd; for, when the last shawl slid
From her bare back, she still stood quiet there,
And nowise heeded what this stranger did,
Nor the sweet influx new of light and air
Upon her reeking limbs; for she was wet—
Wet through and through, in that close prison pent,
Bathed in the oily steam of her own sweat—
And still her limbs were stiff, her head down bent
Between her weary arms, and all her frame
As rigid as a block of carven coal.
Don Manuel stood above her, full of shame
And indignation at her lot; his soul
Seeking all vainly how to find out hers.
But slowly from that apathetic trance
She roused herself; at last her body stirs,
Her dim eyes look with shy and sidelong glance
Toward the stranger: and at first, she thought
Her fellow-slaves were come to fetch her forth
And lead her to her place. But those she sought
Were far away; and this man from the North,
So different in colour and in dress,
What did he here? She lifted her sad eyes,
And when she saw his reverend comeliness,
His pitying looks, within her heart did rise
A sense of trust: sure, such a friend will suit
Her hapless life! So she thrust out her head,
And laid her hot moist forehead on his foot,
And kept it there awhile; as if she said
“Sir, I am yours—but oh, at least be kind!”
He saw, and guess'd the meaning of her act;
And stooping, gently raised her from behind
Till she stood upright; but with force so slack'd
By long endurance, and a brain so tried
And dizzy, that she sank into his arms.
The old man stagger'd; his offended pride
Would fain repulse her, but his bosom warms
With something like paternal sympathy
For such a piteous burden: and anon,
Scarce knowing what he did, he cast his eye
Upon the gilded chair, and quick thereon
He placed her—placed Queen Kara's human seat
Full on the cushions of his master's throne!
The deed was done, the sacrilege complete:
Ah what a triumph, had the Queen but known!
That worthless thing which, as her seers foretold,
She left behind her—that mean makeshift stool,
A bare-back'd slave—upon Don Luis' gold
And purple cushions, had been set to cool;
Aye, and the white man's self had placed it there.
But not for long, though: such a hardy slave,
So used to labour, and so apt to bear
All that was laid upon her, well might brave,
After some brief recess of lassitude,
What she had borne to-day: and so it was,
That in a moment—while Don Manuel's mood
By sense of error had been changed, alas!
From tender to severe,—the life came back
Into her frame; and she with horror saw
Herself, a naked creature wet and black,
Poised on the white man's throne. In fear and awe
She sprang away; and with uplifted hands
Sought pardon, or escape from punishment,
Of that her new-found master. What commands
To give her, and what help; and in what tent
'Twere best to house the lone forsaken maid,
Don Manuel ponder'd; all his sterner mind
Soften'd again by those sad eyes, that pray'd
Beseechingly; as one who, long resign'd
To cruelty and capture, ventured yet
To sue once more for mercy and a home.
He look'd at her: he could not quite forget
The women of the land whence he had come—
His Lusitanian daughters, and his wife:
And this one was so different, yet so like!
This one, a mere barbarian all her life,
A branded slave whom any one may strike
Securely; who has only her own hue
Of blackness, and her girdle with its fringe,
And the slave's collar, to protect from view
Her person and its womanhood. Some tinge
Fresh from the source of feeling, unawares
Colour'd the old man's spirit, as his gaze
Dwelt on a thing so low, it scarcely dares
To call itself a woman; and whose days
Henceforth are his, to order them at will
In all ignoble toil. Yet certainly,
Do what she may, she is a woman still,
And has a woman's claim to live and die
Among her fellows, bound to nothing worse
Than Nature bids and Virtue. He had power,
And he alone, to rid her from the curse
She bore so long; and to her natural dower
Of innocence, add something too of love
And self-respect and happiness and joy.
Therefore, because the baser instincts move
More easily than the nobler, and destroy
Each other, ranging downward evermore,
Not all at once he yielded to that maid
Who still stood trembling on the dais-floor,
The grace for which she mutely, sadly pray'd
With timid supplication: but at last
He snatch'd a cloke from that outrageous heap,
And flung it round her shoulders, and made fast
The ends in front; thereby at least to keep
Her secrets from the scrutiny of men.
He beckon'd her to follow him; and strode
Straight from the great tent to his own again,
And called his graver fellows in, and show'd
The cloked and cowering damsel to them all.
“Don Luis' gift!” said he, “a strange sad gift;
For this is that unhappy female thrall
Whose back, as you remember, had to lift
And bear Queen Kara's weight of majesty
A weary while, to-day. I cannot guess
Whence she should come, a negress such as she
Who stands before you; for her comeliness
Is like our own: her features clear and fine,
Her hair, how different from the negro's wool!
'Tis long and straight and soft: in form and line,
In all save colour, she is beautiful.
Yea, some might think that, with a face like hers,
A jet black skin, pure velvet to the touch,
Is charming too and lovable, and stirs
The sense of beauty in us quite as much
As Lusitanian olive, or the white
And rosy alabaster of the North.
What shall I do then with this lonely wight—
Deserted by her people, and cast forth
Into our quarters as a worthless thing?
Our men are soldiers; disciplined, but warm
With youthful passions; and I dare not fling
This tempting bait, this maiden face and form,
Into their ranks, unguarded and unclad.
I am her master and her guardian now:
How shall I save her from the lot she had
Until to-day, and better her? Aye, how?”
Thus call'd to counsel, each spake forth his rede:
One thought it well to dress her as a man,
And keep her sex unknown; but this would need
Some concert with herself: and such a plan,
How could she share it, or how execute,
Who knew no language but her own, and felt
The lack of clothes as little as a brute?
Another said, Surely she always knelt
On hands and knees; 'twas obviously her trade;
Well, let her then pursue it, and lie hid
As a mere stool, for show or service made,
Within the tent. Ah! yes—but, if she did,
The men would find her, when we strike our tents.
So that plan fail'd. Another, with a smile,
Said, “Sell her, then, whene'er the coast presents
A market and a buyer! And meanwhile,
Don Manuel must provide.” “And so I shall,”
Don Manuel said; “I will not sell her, though:
I shall reserve this suffering animal
For higher uses than a slave can know
In these wild countries. I have one man here,
My servant Lazarillo, in whose skill
To keep a woman safe from force and fear,
I much confide; he has the power and will,
And is too old for wanton wretchlessness,
But not too old for wardenship. To him,—
Unless we find a matron who can dress
The savage maid, and teach her, limb by limb,
The use of clothes—I trust her: mine and his,
She shall remain unspotted and secure,
Until I come to Portugal, and kiss
My daughters and their mother, not more pure,
So help me God! than this rude African.”
To those barbarians and their haughty Queen
13
Strange arms, strange armour; a bewildering scene
Of martial movement: and amidst it all,
Girt with gay flags and many a gilded ring,
The fair pavilion of the Portugal,
Don Luis, envoy from that famous King.
Queen Kara, half indignant, half afraid,
Stared at the unknown throng; so wonderful,
So confident, so differently array'd
From her own people: men with heads of wool,
And knotted clubs, and spears, and o'er the breast
A shield of tiger skins; but not like those—
Not mail'd, like yonder strangers of the West.
And as she gazed, a noise of welcome rose
From the far crowd: her warriors shook their spears,
As doubting of the sound; then suddenly
They saw 'twas peace, and to the white men's ears
Sent forth a yell of warlike amity.
Then first, advancing slow with all his train
Of officers and servants, from the tent
Don Luis moved; and thrice, and thrice again,
Bow'd, with the ease of courtly compliment,
Before that dusky Queen. She, pacified
By such salute, returned it; in her way
Polite, yet bating nothing of her pride.
Then, to illustrate that auspicious day,
The white men's trumpets urged their silver tones,
And conches from Queen Kara's retinue
Gave emulous answer, as toward their thrones
14
The Ethiop woman and the Aryan man,
So different; yet alike at least in this,
That either by soft courtesies did plan
To overreach the other. The abyss
That sex, race, colour, language, must have made
Betwixt them, was full easily fill'd up
By one strong motive, interest. It was Trade
Who offer'd both her many-twinkling cup
Of profit and renown; and in exchange
For ivory tusks and slaves and virgin gold
Brought marvels from the western world; the strange
And fatal gifts of Europe, manifold
In energy of vice: but most of all,
That novel weapon, which can kill from far,
With nothing deadly save a little ball;
And yet can aid the horrid charms of war,
By sulphur smoke, and such tremendous noise
As none had heard till now. Interpreters
In rapid speech convey'd the mutual joys
And ceremonious greetings, his and hers,
Until they enter'd the pavilion door
And reach'd the dais, and Don Luis bow'd
Queen Kara to her seat—upon the floor!
Upon the floor? She, petulant and proud,
Beheld with rising anger and disdain
That throne of broidered rugs, and tiger skins,
And scarlet cushions, laid for her in vain
On the broad platform: her quick eye begins
To note that his throne is not order'd thus.
15
And she have no chair? 'Twas preposterous—
An insult to her state—perhaps a snare,
A symbol of submission! True, her throne
Look'd soft and fair; but she must heighten it,
Must lift it to a level with his own,
That stranger's, if she deign'd at all to sit
Here, as the white man's guest. She look'd around;
Her chiefs, her guards, her slaves, were standing by;
And near her, squatting on the lower ground,
Her meanest slave, Cupassis, patiently
Watch'd for some signal of her owner's will.
Queen Kara saw her, and with kindling eyes
That spoke as plain as words, she sent a thrill
Through that poor creature's heart, that made her rise
And reverently approach; for well she knew
She still was wanted for some service base,
Some ignominous uses ever new.
Queen Kara sternly pointed to a place
Beside the envoy; and that supple slave
Knelt down there, prone upon her hands and knees,
For well she guess'd what seat the Queen would have;
And o'er her prostrate body, draperies
Were flung, and carpets from the royal store,
Until that seat, to its due level raised,
Rivall'd the stranger's. Then and not before
Queen Kara chose to sit; and having gazed
Full on her host, she plump'd with all her weight
Upon that human stool; which quiver'd not,
Enured to such a burden. There in state
16
The thing she sat on; listening haughtily
Whenas Don Luis, with his western smile,
Sat down beside her, eager to apply
All diplomatic craft. He did beguile
Her ears with stories of the wealth and fame
Of that great king his master; who has sent
Across wide seas, to testify the same
To all far nations, and to compliment
With peaceful tokens such as be his friends.
Then, at a sign from him, th' obsequious train
Show'd forth gay presents, which the monarch sends
To this fair Queen, the glories of whose reign
Are known right well in distant Portugal.
Fulfill'd with these, the savage woman's heart
Swell'd with new pleasure; and she too must call
Her sleek attendants, bidding them impart
Her offerings in return. Thus, what with speech
Of admiration at the gifts display'd,
And promise or persuasion, each to each,
Long time went by; and still that prostrate maid
Bore the full pressure of the ponderous Queen.
Half-smother'd by those rugs and draperies,
With crush'd and rigid limbs, she stood unseen
Upon her broaden'd hands and callous knees,
As stiff and quiet as Don Luis's chair.
No sound betray'd her presence; sob nor sigh
Nor labour'd breathing, told that she was there:
So well had she been train'd, so perfectly
Had lifelong usage taught her to endure
17
And lifeless as the other furniture.
Nay, when at length Queen Kara rose to go,
And the mute slave felt lighten'd from above
And heard the voices and the order'd feet
Of those who went, she did not dare to move;
She never thought of moving. The Queen's seat,
The envoy's seat, stood empty, side by side,
Each motionless, and waiting human hands
To lift it from the dais. Far and wide
The trumpets blow once more; Don Luis stands
Bare-headed, smiling affable adieu
To the proud Queen; and in barbaric state
She with her chiefs and guards and retinue
And all her gifts, majestic and elate,
Has reach'd the wide pavilion's open doors,
When, from behind, his white-hair'd chamberlain
Approach'd the envoy. “Something of her stores
The Queen has left, and somewhat of her train:
The throne she sat on, and the slave beneath—
That crouching woman!” Turning at the words,
Don Luis saw; and hiss'd between his teeth
(For all his courtly manner scarce affords
A cloke to hide the white man's haughtiness),
“Fair Queen, you should not thus forsake your throne:
Behold it there, forgotten!” With address
As haughty and suggestive as his own,
The dame replied—nor did she turn to look
At what he show'd her—“Nothing is forgot:
My faithful people never yet forsook
18
Queen Kara's custom, then? She does not deign
To use the same seat twice. Yon paltry stool,
The mean memorial that here too I reign,
Is yours, or any one's: your basest fool
May use its rugs and mantles, and has leave
To own the slave beneath them.” Saying this,
She waved her hand, and bade the bearers heave
Her litter, that should take her back to bliss
Of sovereignty unquestion'd and unshared
By any white man. As she left the place,
Don Luis stood there still, and still stood bared;
But with a broadening smile upon his face
That threaten'd laughter: and he would have laugh'd,
But for the sense of office. “There she goes,”
Thought he; “a proud and heavy-laden craft
As any out of Lisbon! Ah, who knows
What I deserve, for steering one like her
Safe into harbour, with alternate skill
Of gifts to ease her, and of hopes to stir!
The litter bends beneath her weight; and still
The bearers stagger; what a monstrous load
To weigh for hours on one poor creature's back—
A woman like herself! The squatted toad!
I must release her victim, bare and black
Under the burden of another's gauds.”
With that, he call'd the white-hair'd chamberlain:
“Manuel,” said he, “Her Majesty applauds
Our grand reception; but she is so fain
Of her own rights, so careless of her slaves,
19
Upon a level with myself, she waives
All title to the seat she occupied.
That seat is human and is feminine,
As you know well; and, with its costly gear,
'Tis worth your having, Manuel, or mine.
But the proud Queen thought otherwise: for hear
Her fiat—that the basest fool of ours
May have it all, and welcome! After that,
How can I offer it to you, whose powers
And place have made you like an autocrat
Over my household? Yet, when all is said,
The gear is rich; and, as myself have seen,
The slave girl under is a comely maid,
Well limb'd, well shaped, and fairly comb'd and clean,
Though blacker than an elephant. My friend,
Take her for what she is, a gift from me,
With all her trappings; if you condescend
To own a thing so abject. Set her free
From yon degrading posture, first of all;
Then, let her serve your servants, if you will,
Or tend your hogs, at home in Portugal.”
The chamberlain bow'd low; then took his fill
Of orders and instructions, ere he went
Softly—for he too was a gentleman,
And had a father's heart—into the tent,
Deserted now; and silently began
Within himself to meditate the case.
Queen Kara's seat beside the Envoy's chair
Stood empty still, and motionless: how base
20
And was itself that seat! Yet Manuel knew
It was a woman: but he did not know
The cruel things that womankind can do
To women; nor how pitifully low
A slave may sink and yet be womanly.
There were no women in Don Luis' band—
Nor would he call the menfolk: he drew nigh
Alone, to where that monstrous heap did stand
Of rugs and shawls; discreetly, one by one,
He flung them off, until, below the heap,
He found the solid framework of that throne—
The slave Cupassis. She was fast asleep,
Or so she seem'd; for, when the last shawl slid
From her bare back, she still stood quiet there,
And nowise heeded what this stranger did,
Nor the sweet influx new of light and air
Upon her reeking limbs; for she was wet—
Wet through and through, in that close prison pent,
Bathed in the oily steam of her own sweat—
And still her limbs were stiff, her head down bent
Between her weary arms, and all her frame
As rigid as a block of carven coal.
Don Manuel stood above her, full of shame
And indignation at her lot; his soul
Seeking all vainly how to find out hers.
But slowly from that apathetic trance
She roused herself; at last her body stirs,
Her dim eyes look with shy and sidelong glance
Toward the stranger: and at first, she thought
21
And lead her to her place. But those she sought
Were far away; and this man from the North,
So different in colour and in dress,
What did he here? She lifted her sad eyes,
And when she saw his reverend comeliness,
His pitying looks, within her heart did rise
A sense of trust: sure, such a friend will suit
Her hapless life! So she thrust out her head,
And laid her hot moist forehead on his foot,
And kept it there awhile; as if she said
“Sir, I am yours—but oh, at least be kind!”
He saw, and guess'd the meaning of her act;
And stooping, gently raised her from behind
Till she stood upright; but with force so slack'd
By long endurance, and a brain so tried
And dizzy, that she sank into his arms.
The old man stagger'd; his offended pride
Would fain repulse her, but his bosom warms
With something like paternal sympathy
For such a piteous burden: and anon,
Scarce knowing what he did, he cast his eye
Upon the gilded chair, and quick thereon
He placed her—placed Queen Kara's human seat
Full on the cushions of his master's throne!
The deed was done, the sacrilege complete:
Ah what a triumph, had the Queen but known!
That worthless thing which, as her seers foretold,
She left behind her—that mean makeshift stool,
A bare-back'd slave—upon Don Luis' gold
22
Aye, and the white man's self had placed it there.
But not for long, though: such a hardy slave,
So used to labour, and so apt to bear
All that was laid upon her, well might brave,
After some brief recess of lassitude,
What she had borne to-day: and so it was,
That in a moment—while Don Manuel's mood
By sense of error had been changed, alas!
From tender to severe,—the life came back
Into her frame; and she with horror saw
Herself, a naked creature wet and black,
Poised on the white man's throne. In fear and awe
She sprang away; and with uplifted hands
Sought pardon, or escape from punishment,
Of that her new-found master. What commands
To give her, and what help; and in what tent
'Twere best to house the lone forsaken maid,
Don Manuel ponder'd; all his sterner mind
Soften'd again by those sad eyes, that pray'd
Beseechingly; as one who, long resign'd
To cruelty and capture, ventured yet
To sue once more for mercy and a home.
He look'd at her: he could not quite forget
The women of the land whence he had come—
His Lusitanian daughters, and his wife:
And this one was so different, yet so like!
This one, a mere barbarian all her life,
A branded slave whom any one may strike
Securely; who has only her own hue
23
And the slave's collar, to protect from view
Her person and its womanhood. Some tinge
Fresh from the source of feeling, unawares
Colour'd the old man's spirit, as his gaze
Dwelt on a thing so low, it scarcely dares
To call itself a woman; and whose days
Henceforth are his, to order them at will
In all ignoble toil. Yet certainly,
Do what she may, she is a woman still,
And has a woman's claim to live and die
Among her fellows, bound to nothing worse
Than Nature bids and Virtue. He had power,
And he alone, to rid her from the curse
She bore so long; and to her natural dower
Of innocence, add something too of love
And self-respect and happiness and joy.
Therefore, because the baser instincts move
More easily than the nobler, and destroy
Each other, ranging downward evermore,
Not all at once he yielded to that maid
Who still stood trembling on the dais-floor,
The grace for which she mutely, sadly pray'd
With timid supplication: but at last
He snatch'd a cloke from that outrageous heap,
And flung it round her shoulders, and made fast
The ends in front; thereby at least to keep
Her secrets from the scrutiny of men.
He beckon'd her to follow him; and strode
Straight from the great tent to his own again,
24
The cloked and cowering damsel to them all.
“Don Luis' gift!” said he, “a strange sad gift;
For this is that unhappy female thrall
Whose back, as you remember, had to lift
And bear Queen Kara's weight of majesty
A weary while, to-day. I cannot guess
Whence she should come, a negress such as she
Who stands before you; for her comeliness
Is like our own: her features clear and fine,
Her hair, how different from the negro's wool!
'Tis long and straight and soft: in form and line,
In all save colour, she is beautiful.
Yea, some might think that, with a face like hers,
A jet black skin, pure velvet to the touch,
Is charming too and lovable, and stirs
The sense of beauty in us quite as much
As Lusitanian olive, or the white
And rosy alabaster of the North.
What shall I do then with this lonely wight—
Deserted by her people, and cast forth
Into our quarters as a worthless thing?
Our men are soldiers; disciplined, but warm
With youthful passions; and I dare not fling
This tempting bait, this maiden face and form,
Into their ranks, unguarded and unclad.
I am her master and her guardian now:
How shall I save her from the lot she had
Until to-day, and better her? Aye, how?”
25
One thought it well to dress her as a man,
And keep her sex unknown; but this would need
Some concert with herself: and such a plan,
How could she share it, or how execute,
Who knew no language but her own, and felt
The lack of clothes as little as a brute?
Another said, Surely she always knelt
On hands and knees; 'twas obviously her trade;
Well, let her then pursue it, and lie hid
As a mere stool, for show or service made,
Within the tent. Ah! yes—but, if she did,
The men would find her, when we strike our tents.
So that plan fail'd. Another, with a smile,
Said, “Sell her, then, whene'er the coast presents
A market and a buyer! And meanwhile,
Don Manuel must provide.” “And so I shall,”
Don Manuel said; “I will not sell her, though:
I shall reserve this suffering animal
For higher uses than a slave can know
In these wild countries. I have one man here,
My servant Lazarillo, in whose skill
To keep a woman safe from force and fear,
I much confide; he has the power and will,
And is too old for wanton wretchlessness,
But not too old for wardenship. To him,—
Unless we find a matron who can dress
The savage maid, and teach her, limb by limb,
The use of clothes—I trust her: mine and his,
26
Until I come to Portugal, and kiss
My daughters and their mother, not more pure,
So help me God! than this rude African.”
He kept his word. The mute Cupassis saw
Those strangers go away, and not a man
Loosed her large cloke or laid a prying paw
Upon her body. So, she was not sold,
She was not to be eaten, nor consign'd
To new indignities: ah, and behold
Her master smiles; he certainly is kind,
And he will let her serve him. Oh how good
The gods have been! Her change of ownership,
How blessed to herself! Her Galla blood,
Seen in the brighter eye and finer lip,
As well as in the hair, was tractable
To education and to courtesy:
And she, to whom no better hope befell
Than just to be a chattel and to die,
Now wonder'd much, that always on her feet
She freely moved about the tent's wide floor,
And no one cared to claim her as a seat
Or use her as a footstool, any more!
Those strangers go away, and not a man
Loosed her large cloke or laid a prying paw
Upon her body. So, she was not sold,
She was not to be eaten, nor consign'd
To new indignities: ah, and behold
Her master smiles; he certainly is kind,
And he will let her serve him. Oh how good
The gods have been! Her change of ownership,
How blessed to herself! Her Galla blood,
Seen in the brighter eye and finer lip,
As well as in the hair, was tractable
To education and to courtesy:
And she, to whom no better hope befell
Than just to be a chattel and to die,
Now wonder'd much, that always on her feet
She freely moved about the tent's wide floor,
And no one cared to claim her as a seat
Or use her as a footstool, any more!
But soon, far greater marvels, rarer each
Than other, roused her spirit; when she saw
The white men's ways, and heard their foreign speech,
And blindly felt with new bewildering awe
The presence of their world: a world so strange,
So wide, so various, and so different
From her poor Past, that she could only range
From point to point with childish wonderment,
Gazing and listening. But as she gazed
And as she listen'd, her attentive soul,
Repress'd so long, expanded; and amazed
She wander'd backward through the memories foul
Of abject toil and sullen servitude
Whereof her life was full. She, a mere slave,
Now learnt the secret power of Womanhood
Upon her masters, and began to crave
A share in all that made her masters wise
And splendid and successful: so alert
And eager are the humblest maiden's eyes,
When her freed vision makes her heart expert
In understanding of the things she sees.
Thus then, Cupassis, whom Don Manuel
Kept safe and sacred, leaving her at ease
Although a slave, and willing her to dwell
In Lazarillo's quarters, shelter'd there
In a soft nest of privacy and peace,
Grew tender of herself, as one aware
That sure the worst of slavery must cease
With the sweet coming of such gracious things.
And cease it did: no longer like a thrall,
Cupassis, in their daily journeyings,
Bore a light load; or bore no load at all,
But walk'd erect, as freeborn damsels walk;
Or, if the march were long, in some large wain
She lay composed, and from the white men's talk
Gather'd strange words, to answer them again
If chance they spoke to her. And when at last
She saw the wonder of the boundless sea,
And the great ships thereon, and all that vast
Infinitude of Nature's Majesty
And Art's achievement, she survey'd the same
With eyes brimful of young intelligence
And dawning apprehension. No fair dame
Had yet beheld her; her untutor'd sense
Owed to her sex no guidance save its own;
And yet she was a woman now, complete
With hopes and aspirations, all self-sown,
And with such finer instincts as were meet
For the white bosom of a Western Maid.
Boon Nature gave her all she ought to have;
Evolving, with the kindly stranger's aid,
From that crush'd heart and spirit of the slave
The fragrance of the woman: and so plain
Is Nature's right, that when Don Luis' sails
Swept into Tagus from the Atlantic main,
And he in triumph landed with his bales
Of Afric treasures, all he had to show
Of lustrous gold and gleaming ivory
Could ne'er attract the gazing people so
As did that slave Cupassis. Certainly
They had not seen in Portugal till now
A Galla negress, with her long soft hair,
Her fine-cut features and well-moulded brow—
A maid so black, yet, were she only fair,
As beauteous as the best. Her branded face
Was small discredit; for no creature knew
Its sad significance: the seeming grace
They thought it, of some barbarous tattoo—
Symbol of honour surely, not of shame.
So moved she through the palpitating crowd;
Conscious of that base lot from whence she came,
Yet conscious too of maidenhood, and proud
Of her new right to walk erect and free
Behind an honour'd master. Not unclad
She walk'd; but in fair linen modestly
Clothed from the shoulder downward: what she had
Of native skill, the friendly mariners
Had better'd by their teaching; till she learn'd
How best to give those lissome limbs of hers
A garb that leaves their motion undiscern'd
And yet impedes it not. In all the suite
No courtier ruled his steps in daintier wise,
No man at arms trod firmer on his feet,
Than did this lonely slave-girl; the mere prize
Of a disdainful chance, the careless gift
Of a chief captain to his chamberlain.
But she her eyes submissive would not lift
Above the selvage of her master's train,
The which she held. And thus by street and square
They pass'd into the presence of the King.
Than other, roused her spirit; when she saw
The white men's ways, and heard their foreign speech,
And blindly felt with new bewildering awe
The presence of their world: a world so strange,
27
From her poor Past, that she could only range
From point to point with childish wonderment,
Gazing and listening. But as she gazed
And as she listen'd, her attentive soul,
Repress'd so long, expanded; and amazed
She wander'd backward through the memories foul
Of abject toil and sullen servitude
Whereof her life was full. She, a mere slave,
Now learnt the secret power of Womanhood
Upon her masters, and began to crave
A share in all that made her masters wise
And splendid and successful: so alert
And eager are the humblest maiden's eyes,
When her freed vision makes her heart expert
In understanding of the things she sees.
Thus then, Cupassis, whom Don Manuel
Kept safe and sacred, leaving her at ease
Although a slave, and willing her to dwell
In Lazarillo's quarters, shelter'd there
In a soft nest of privacy and peace,
Grew tender of herself, as one aware
That sure the worst of slavery must cease
With the sweet coming of such gracious things.
And cease it did: no longer like a thrall,
Cupassis, in their daily journeyings,
Bore a light load; or bore no load at all,
But walk'd erect, as freeborn damsels walk;
Or, if the march were long, in some large wain
She lay composed, and from the white men's talk
28
If chance they spoke to her. And when at last
She saw the wonder of the boundless sea,
And the great ships thereon, and all that vast
Infinitude of Nature's Majesty
And Art's achievement, she survey'd the same
With eyes brimful of young intelligence
And dawning apprehension. No fair dame
Had yet beheld her; her untutor'd sense
Owed to her sex no guidance save its own;
And yet she was a woman now, complete
With hopes and aspirations, all self-sown,
And with such finer instincts as were meet
For the white bosom of a Western Maid.
Boon Nature gave her all she ought to have;
Evolving, with the kindly stranger's aid,
From that crush'd heart and spirit of the slave
The fragrance of the woman: and so plain
Is Nature's right, that when Don Luis' sails
Swept into Tagus from the Atlantic main,
And he in triumph landed with his bales
Of Afric treasures, all he had to show
Of lustrous gold and gleaming ivory
Could ne'er attract the gazing people so
As did that slave Cupassis. Certainly
They had not seen in Portugal till now
A Galla negress, with her long soft hair,
Her fine-cut features and well-moulded brow—
29
As beauteous as the best. Her branded face
Was small discredit; for no creature knew
Its sad significance: the seeming grace
They thought it, of some barbarous tattoo—
Symbol of honour surely, not of shame.
So moved she through the palpitating crowd;
Conscious of that base lot from whence she came,
Yet conscious too of maidenhood, and proud
Of her new right to walk erect and free
Behind an honour'd master. Not unclad
She walk'd; but in fair linen modestly
Clothed from the shoulder downward: what she had
Of native skill, the friendly mariners
Had better'd by their teaching; till she learn'd
How best to give those lissome limbs of hers
A garb that leaves their motion undiscern'd
And yet impedes it not. In all the suite
No courtier ruled his steps in daintier wise,
No man at arms trod firmer on his feet,
Than did this lonely slave-girl; the mere prize
Of a disdainful chance, the careless gift
Of a chief captain to his chamberlain.
But she her eyes submissive would not lift
Above the selvage of her master's train,
The which she held. And thus by street and square
They pass'd into the presence of the King.
Some say, that when Alfonso saw her there
Ranged in her place with many another thing
Remote and curious, which Don Luis' art
Had won from those far wilds, he spake and said
That nothing touch'd his fancy or his heart,
Of all the treasures thus before him laid,
As she did: she, so glossy black of hue,
So wholly negress—yet, except in that,
So like the maids of Europe: and 'tis true,
For in the chronicle of Pintolat
It still stands written, that the Galla girl,
Bought by the King, was by the King transferr'd
To Inez—to his daughter: a pure pearl
The princess was, whose prayers were ever heard
By the sweet saints; and Mary Mother gave
Cupassis to her wishes: who became
A Christian, ceasing then to be a slave.
Nay more: 'tis written, that her former shame
Nor yet her colour, barr'd her from the life
Religious; by her royal mistress' leave
She gave her ample tresses to the knife,
And there at Lisbon, on Saint Lucy's eve,
Profess'd herself a nun: the first black nun
(So saith my Lord Don Ferdinando Sà)
The first and best, if not the only one,
In the great convent of the Trinità.
Ranged in her place with many another thing
30
Had won from those far wilds, he spake and said
That nothing touch'd his fancy or his heart,
Of all the treasures thus before him laid,
As she did: she, so glossy black of hue,
So wholly negress—yet, except in that,
So like the maids of Europe: and 'tis true,
For in the chronicle of Pintolat
It still stands written, that the Galla girl,
Bought by the King, was by the King transferr'd
To Inez—to his daughter: a pure pearl
The princess was, whose prayers were ever heard
By the sweet saints; and Mary Mother gave
Cupassis to her wishes: who became
A Christian, ceasing then to be a slave.
Nay more: 'tis written, that her former shame
Nor yet her colour, barr'd her from the life
Religious; by her royal mistress' leave
She gave her ample tresses to the knife,
And there at Lisbon, on Saint Lucy's eve,
Profess'd herself a nun: the first black nun
(So saith my Lord Don Ferdinando Sà)
The first and best, if not the only one,
In the great convent of the Trinità.
“That vast infinitude.” There may be an infinitude, i.e., a quasi-infinitude, which is not vast; e.g., that of the microscope.
31
Mistress Mary.
Mistress Mary sits alone,
On the hill, upon a stone,
And the brightness all is gone
From her eyes:
What she feels, she cannot tell;
But she sees both heaven and hell,
And she thinks it may be well
If she dies.
On the hill, upon a stone,
And the brightness all is gone
From her eyes:
What she feels, she cannot tell;
But she sees both heaven and hell,
And she thinks it may be well
If she dies.
Mistress Mary is but young;
And the folk she dwells among
Use a very different tongue
From her own;
They are north and she is south,
And their rugged speech uncouth
To her rosy little mouth
Scarce is known.
And the folk she dwells among
Use a very different tongue
From her own;
They are north and she is south,
And their rugged speech uncouth
To her rosy little mouth
Scarce is known.
Then they are not half so kind
As the friends she left behind
Where the scented southern wind
Loves to come:
She is wondering even now
If the breezes on her brow
Are the same that used to blow
Round her home.
As the friends she left behind
Where the scented southern wind
Loves to come:
34
If the breezes on her brow
Are the same that used to blow
Round her home.
'Tis an hundred miles away;
But she knows that many a day
She has heard among the hay
Such a breeze,
Blowing low and blowing high,
None knew whence and none knew why,
O'er the land and o'er the sky
And the seas.
But she knows that many a day
She has heard among the hay
Such a breeze,
Blowing low and blowing high,
None knew whence and none knew why,
O'er the land and o'er the sky
And the seas.
Oh, if only she could move
On the happy wings of love
From the hill and from the grove
To his side—
Flying free and flying fair
Through the sunny fields of air,
With fresh flowers on her hair
Like a bride!
On the happy wings of love
From the hill and from the grove
To his side—
Flying free and flying fair
Through the sunny fields of air,
With fresh flowers on her hair
Like a bride!
'Tis a folly, 'tis a dream:
Yet how true her fancies seem,
And how vividly they gleam
Through her tears!
She can never quite forget
That her eyes have oft been wet
For a man she has not met—
Oh, for years.
Yet how true her fancies seem,
And how vividly they gleam
Through her tears!
She can never quite forget
That her eyes have oft been wet
For a man she has not met—
Oh, for years.
35
But she rises—it is late;
They will wonder, they will wait,
They may lock the garden gate
In the vale:
They will say (she hopes they will)
'Tis the cold air on the hill,
That has made her look so ill
And so pale.
They will wonder, they will wait,
They may lock the garden gate
In the vale:
They will say (she hopes they will)
'Tis the cold air on the hill,
That has made her look so ill
And so pale.
What is this? A sound of fear
In the woodland, rustling near—
Surely no one has been here
Since she came?
She is startled; she must go:
Ah, 'twas always even so;
Thoughts of love and thoughts of woe
Are the same.
In the woodland, rustling near—
Surely no one has been here
Since she came?
She is startled; she must go:
Ah, 'twas always even so;
Thoughts of love and thoughts of woe
Are the same.
And she trembles, and she stands
With her face between her hands,
Bound and fetter'd in the bands
Of alarm:
And her maiden heart grows cold
As she feels a something bold
Coming nearer; and behold
'Tis an arm!
With her face between her hands,
Bound and fetter'd in the bands
Of alarm:
And her maiden heart grows cold
As she feels a something bold
Coming nearer; and behold
'Tis an arm!
With a sick and shuddering dread
And a wish that she were dead
Does she turn her graceful head
Just to see;
Then, the love wherewith she burns
Brightens up in her, and yearns
Toward the man to whom she turns:
It is He!
And a wish that she were dead
Does she turn her graceful head
36
Then, the love wherewith she burns
Brightens up in her, and yearns
Toward the man to whom she turns:
It is He!
37
The Canvassers.
I was standin' at our Emily's door—
For I'd come to stop for a week, you know,
An' I'd stopp'd my week, an' a good bit more,
To clean an' scrub, so as her should go
Right away from yon smoky town
To our little cottage on Briarly Down;
Well, I was a-standing at her front door—
Not idlin', you may be sure o' that,
For I'd black'd the grate an' clean'd the floor,
Aye, black'd the grate till it shone like grease,
An' scour'd the floor on my hands an' knees,
An' tidied the hearth an' shook the mat,
An' clean'd the washhouse an' swill'd the yard,
An' dug the coals an' carried 'em in,
Till a few good hours I lay I'd bin
Sweatin' an' scrubbin' an' workin' hard—
An' at last, when I'd done down the bedroom stair,
I come to the door for a breath o' fresh air:
An' the day was hot, an' my word! thinks I,
Was there ever a wench like me?
Here i'the sun, where a body can see—
Hands an' arms an' face, I declare,
Black as a tinker—that I are!
But I thought, why, what do it signify?
Here's ony neighbours, they all know me;
They know I'm a good un to scour an' scrub,
Nor I don't much mind in a general way
If my face is as black as it is to-day
An' my hands an' arms all wet wi' grime,
Or if they're as clean as at evenin' time
When I soap 'em well wi' a brush an' a rub
Till they're red all over as red can be:
For mine is a servant's arms, you see;
I've bin a servant all my life,
An' if I'm now a bettermost wife,
D'ye think I'd alter my work an' ways
From what they was i' my coortin' days?
No, lad, not for a hunderd pound!
I'm the same rough creature now, what you found
In that theer spot where I seed you first;
An' when you'd gone I felt fit to burst
Wi' thinkin' o' what you had said to me
When you look'd at me so lovingly,
An' I know'd you'd got the very same face
What I'd seen afore, in the kitchen fire,
When I was a scullion, at my place:
But I never did think you was so much higher!
So, as I was a-sayin', I stood on the sill,
Sniffin' an' lookin' an' thinkin' no harm;
An' for all I did nothing but just stand still,
The sweat run down in grimy streaks
Over my forehead an' over my cheeks,
An' I wiped it off wi' the thick o' my arm;
An' neighbour Pragnell, her come by,
An' her looks at me wi' a turn of her eye
An' says, “Why, Hannah, you do look warm!”
“Warm?” I says, “Why, I sweats as free
As ever I did i' my scullery;
An' I wonder whatever our Emily do
Wi' a cottage like this, as is welly new,
An' yet it's as dusty, aye dustier far,
Nor yon old kitchen at Briarly are!
Aye, but I reckon I've clean'd it out,
An' swep it down an' sided it up,
Till the place is as smart as a brand-new cup;
An' you know, a regular cleanin'-bout
Is as good to me as rain to a duck—
For I do just like gettin' rid o' the muck!”
“Well, yo hanna got rid of it yet,” says she,
“For it's all gone on to your face, I see!”
Eh, I laugh'd! an' we both on us laugh'd right out:
Her is just fond of a joke, for sure,
And her reckons to call me a blackamoor.
Well, so I am, when there's work to be done:
An' I'm as clean, when the black is gone;
An' you don't mind it, I know that well,
For often an' often I've heerd you tell
As the blackest drudgery I ever do
Is as dear as a lady's talk to you!
So then, her nodded, an' popp'd inside;
An' I was beginnin' to think, ye see,
As I'd put on the kettle an' get my tea,
When I'd gien myself a bit of a souse
At the sink-trough in the little back-house;
But I look'd up an' down, afore I went in,
And eh! whatever d'ye think I spied?
Why, two fine ladies a-walkin' along
Right in the middle of our poor yard!
Eh, but I did just stare pretty hard—
For I thought to myself, what, I canna be wrong,
But it's Mrs. Jones, the Captain's wife;
Did ye ever see such a thing i' your life?
Her was stout, but t'other was thin,
An' younger, a deal; an' I thought, oh lor!
Whatever can they be a-comin' here for?
For the old lady had such a beautiful shawl,
An' the young un look'd pretty an' sprightly an' all,
An' both on 'em spruce an' smart an' prim;
An' me in my rough hard-working trim!
Thinks I, they'll wonder at my queer charms;
For I thought o' my coarse black hands an' arms,
An' my face all dusty an' standin' wi' sweat,
An' my peasant's bonnet dirty an' wet,
An' my cotton frock an' my lindsey skirt,
An' my apron was nobbut a tater sack,
An' my big strong boots as was borrow'd o' Jack:
So here I am, thinks I, i' my dirt,
A rare fine sight for ladies to see!
Wi' that, I run indoors pretty sharp—
Into my hole like a mouldywarp.
But I hadna bin theer not the twist of a tail,
When I heerd them ladies knock at the door,
Callin' for Jack; eh, I did turn pale,
Wi' thinkin', what for was they callin' o' him?
But no, thinks I—if our folks is poor,
Neither our Jack, nor Dick, nor Jim,
Wouldna do nothing like that would be.
So I went to the door—I was forced to go,
Just as I was, all black, you know.
Theer was the ladies; an' eh, my word,
Didn't they both on 'em stare at me!
“Oh!” says the one, “you're busy, I see,
So I'm sorry we've come; but of course you've heard
As your husband's got a vote for the town?
An' we've come to ax him to give it to Brown.”
“Oh, ma'am,” I says, “you're in a mistake;
For I'm ony here for our Emily's sake,
An' her master's at work, an' I canna say
If you'd ever find him at home to-day.”
“Well,” says the lady, “I'm sorry for that;
But maybe you'll tell him what we've bin at,
An' ax him to vote for Brown, you know?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I says; but I know'd no more
What Brown it was, nor I know'd afore;
I ony said it to make 'em go.
Aye, but they didn't! They look'd at me
Over an' over an' round an' round
An' up to my bonnet an' down to the ground,
As if I was set there for folks to see:
Till I thought I was got into such disgrace,
What wi' my clothes an' arms an' face,
As they wanted to make me a laughin' stock.
Well, that did give me a bit of a knock;
For they was real ladies, I could tell;
An' as for the Captain, I know'd him well,—
For I used to clean his boots, you know,
When he lodged wi' my missis at Merlinstow:
So I says, “I ax your pardon, ma'am,
But you seem to be wonderin' what I am!
I'm just a servant—an' if you please,
I've bin cleanin' this house on my hands an' knees,
An' that's the job as has made me black;
For I have to do for myself an' Jack,
Till our Emily brings her little uns back.
But if I'd ha' known as ladies like you
Was comin' to see us in this poor home,
I'd ha' clean'd myself afore you come.”
“Oh!” the young lady says, “it's true
We didn't expect you'd look as you do;
But when you're cleaning, there's not much harm
In a grimy face or a grimy arm;
An' you're quite like a picture—indeed you are;
More nor a lady could be, by far.”
Me like a picture? thinks I—oh dear,
If I was draw'd out, why I should look queer!
An' I felt a bit vex'd, for I know folks says
(Them as has lived wheer ladies ha' bin)
As a lady do have such wheedlin' ways—
Smiles wi' her lips, an' smiles wi' her eyes,
An' looks that dainty an' talks that wise,
As you canna tell what her reckons to mean;
An' half wi' her talkin' an' half wi' her smile,
Her maybe makes fun o' you all the while.
So I thought, are they makin' fun o' me?
But the lady spoke so prettily,
An' her says, “You munna suppose,” her says,
“As we don't think well o' your working ways;
But why we look'd at you so hard
Was this; as we come up the yard
We both on us thought, my mother an' me,
As you look'd as Scotch as Scotch could be.”
“Scotch, ma'am?” I says; “Oh dear me, no!
I'm English born, as my tongue med show—
Wi' a little o' Welsh on my mother's side,
As her used to tell, for her had no pride—
A little o' Welsh, but I don't know what;
An' if I talk plain an' countrified,
Why, I lay theer's nothing o' Scotch in that;
For a English wench, if you'll only let her,
Talks as good as a Scotch un will, or better!”
“Aye—that,” says the lady, “I never can doubt;
But it wasna your talk we thought about,
It was your size; you're so big an' tall
An' hearty an' ruddy an' stout an' strong,
We thought you was Scotch—but it seems we're wrong.”
“No, ma'am,” I says, “I'm not Scotch at all;
I was born in a village not far from here,
Right at the end of the very next sheer—
I'm just a Sloppy, what they call:
Idsall's the name o' the place, if you please,
An' it lies i' the thick o' the Butterway Leas,
Not so far fro' the Breidon Hills;
An' Mrs. Flood o' the Watermills
(You'll ha' heerd tell o' her, ma'am, I dare say?)
It was her as come an' took me away
From working afield, as I used to do,
An' got me a place, though not such a high 'un,
For I clean'd the pots at the Old Red Lion.
Yes, but I waited an' wash'd up too;
I did the work quite heartily,
For I liked my place, ma'am—I'll tell you why:
I used to wait on the ornary,
An' the farmers, when they seed me theer,
Many a one 'ud call me ‘My dear’—
For I was a youngling wench, though grown;
An' when I come round wi' the beggin' plate,
Maybe they'd chuck me under the chin,
But they always dropp'd a halfpenny in:
An' that was why I liked to wait—
For all them halfpence was all my own!
An' I never was much of a one to spend,
So I give 'em to mother at every week end;
An' ‘Mother,’ I says to her one day,
‘I hanna cost you much, I lay,
'Cept what you paid the doctor for me,
When he fetch'd me out o' the apple tree!’
Aye, an' my missis was kind, you see;
An' Miss Mary the daughter, her learn'd me a deal,
Summin' an' spellin'—I used to feel
I didn't know much at the Charity School!
Not as I reckon'd myself a fool;
An' they learnt us readin', an' writin' an' all,
An' samplers—my sampler's again yon wall;
But sums, they bested the likes o' we,
An' I never could manage 'em properly;
For the thing of all others as I liked most
Was when a letter 'ud come by the post,
An' missis 'ud give us a holiday,
'Cause we was order'd up to the Hall,
Big uns an' little uns, great an' small,
To weed the walks, an' sweep away
The leaves what litter'd the carriage-road.
I know'd that work, an' of course I know'd
As I should ha' sixpence for my wage;
But the best on it was, there was Mr. Page—
Butler, he was—as 'ud give us the treat
O' bread an' a slice o' butcher's meat,
What few on us never could get at home—
An' that was the way my good luck come:
It come all at once in a regular souse!
For while I lived at the public house,
A parcel come one day by the stage,
An' I had to take it to Mr. Page:
Eh, my word, ma'am! it did seem grand,
When I went wi' that parcel in my hand
Up to the kitchen at Butterway Hall
In my new straw bonnet an' new red shawl—
For I'd left the Bluecoat School, you know,
So I didna weer the livery now.
An' oh, what a kitchen it was, to be sure!
Not like the one as I lived in,
For this was as bright as a brand-new pin,
An' look'd so natty an' smelt so pure,
An' such fine covers again the wall,
An' chiny dishes an' plates an' all,
An' pans like goold, though of course they was brass,
An' things as I didn't know what they was;
Till I thought, oh lor, what a thing it 'ud be
If I could get to be servant here!
Then Mr. Page, he come out to me,
An' me, when I seed him I did feel queer;
But I give him the parcel at once, you know;
An' he looks i' my face, an' he says, ‘Hollo!
Why, thou bist one o' the Charity School!’
‘Yes, sir,’ I says; an' he says again,
‘Aye, I remember thee now quite plain—
A willing wench, an' as strong as a mule!
Inna thee Martha Owen's child?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I says; an' of course I smiled,
To hear him speak so kind as that:
An' ‘Well then,’ he says, ‘I'll tell thee what—
Here's a new penny for what thou's done;
An' come wi' me, an' I'll show thee to one
As know'd thy mother 'fore thou was born!’
Eh, but I did feel all forlorn,
To go inside wi' a man like him!
I was all of a trem'le an' all of a sweat,
An' my legs did shake an' my eyes did swim;
No wonder, ma'am, for I'd never bin yet
In a house like that i' my life afore.
But soon we come to a parlour door;
And Mr. Page, he show'd me in:
My, what a beautiful room it were!
An' a lady was sittin' an' sewin' there—
Elderly lady, not so thin,
Wi' glasses on, an' a double chin;
An' her gown was silk, an' her apron too,
As if her never had nothing to do.
You may think if I curtsied to one like her,
For I guess'd her med be the housekeeper;
I wasna wrong—it was Mrs. Page;
Her husband and her was much of a age,
An' he was butler an' managed the men,
But her hadna bin long i' the place, not then:
An' I'd never seen nobody half so fine,
Not to be nigh 'em as I was her;
So, thinks I, I'll take this here for a sign
As her winna find fault wi' my character.
Well, her look'd me up, and her look'd me down;
An' says Mr. Page, ‘Why you'd never ha' known
As Martha Owen was married nigh here—
For I quite forgot to tell you, my dear;
An' this young wench is a child o' hern.’
‘Lor!’ says the lady, ‘we live an’ learn—
But Martha Owen? Well, I never!
Young un, thy mother was good an' clever,
One as could tell the pot fro' the lid;
Her should ha' done better nor what her did!
For I tell thee, them was happy days,
When we both on us lived i' one family,
An' Martha was kitchenmaid under me.
Her could cook, then; but by what I've heerd,
Her hanna much practice now, I'm afeard.’
I didna like for to answer again,
Else I could ha' told out straight an' plain
As mother did cook for us every day,
Bacon an' that, in a humble way,
'Cept when her used to be lying in;
But I held my tongue—an' a good job too,
For the lady was just a-goin' to begin
Wi' axin' me what I had got to do.
‘Wheer are you livin'?’ her says; ‘by thy face
I should guess thou was looking out for a place.’
‘Well, ma'am,’ I says, ‘an' I should be proud
If you thought I could ever be allow'd
To live in a gentleman's family;
For my place is a good un, but not a high un—
I ony live at the Old Red Lion.’
‘What?’ says the lady, ‘a public house?
Why then, I doubt it can hardly be
As thou canst come to be under me:
But what, if my Lady 'll just hear reason—
For the under servants is nothing to her,
An' her leaves all that to the housekeeper—
When the family's down here after the season,
An' gentlemen comes to shoot the grouse,
We might manage it then, don't ye think so, Page?
For theer's that Betsy is just upon leaving—
Sent away for lying an' thieving—
So we're wanting another o' this one's age.
Come here,’ her says, ‘let me look at thee!’
Then I went near an' stood at her knee,
An' her look'd at me close, an' says, ‘Dear me,
It's wonderful how the likeness grows—
This wench have gotten the same blue eye,
An' the very spit of our Martha's nose!’
Wi' that, her took an' pinch'd my arm:
Not as her wanted to make me cry,
Or thought for to do me a mite o' harm;
But it was to see if my arms was strong,
Firm i' the muscle, an' stout an' long,
Fit for a servant such as me:
So they was, ma'am, an' so they be!
For I've got a big stout arm, you see;
If it's red an' rough, as it is I know,
Why, real hard work have made it so:
An' a arm like mine, if it's me as says it,
Is a rare good thing for the woman as hes it.
Then the lady look'd at my hands, an' felt 'em,
An' lifted 'em up to her face, an' smelt 'em;
They was as sweet as hern, I lay,
But very different in every way;
They was nothing like what now they be—
All big an' spread wi' drudgery;
But wi' scourin' pots an' swillin' the yard
An' blackenin' grates an' scrubbin' floors
An' cleaning a good bit out o' doors,
They was granner'd a'ready, an' rough an' hard:
An' the lady smiled, an' says to me,
‘Thou knows what hard work is, I see;
Thou inna so nesh, for all thou'rt young;
An' hard-workin' hands an' a quiet tongue
Goes well together—they do, my wench:
Thou wouldna sit on a kitchen bench
Dawdlin', an' doin' o' nothing at all!
So when thou sees thy mother, why then
Tell her I noticed thee up at the Hall;
An' tell her I'd like to see her again:
If I ha' got higher an' her's got lower,
That's not for to say I'm asham'd to know her.
But now,’ says the lady, ‘go thy ways;
An' if so be as thy mother wishes,
We shall maybe see thee one o' these days
Here in our scullery, washing dishes.’
Theer was a piece o' luck for me!
I back'd myself out respectfully,
An' off an' away down the carriage drive,
Whistlin' an' singin' all the way,
Wi' thinkin' how pleas'd poor mother 'ud be
An' what a good day's work I'd done to-day:
So that was how I begun to thrive
An' come to be scullion at Butterway Hall.
But lor, ma'am, what am I thinkin' about,
You'll reckon but little o' me, I doubt,
Tellin' my tale to ladies like you,
What you never told me nor wanted me to,
An' ony a tale of a scullery maid!
I ax your pardon,” I says, “I'm sure;
But I know'd you well, an' I've heerd it said
As you're fond o' goin' among the poor:
Aye, Emily says you give her a track—
An' it's safe in here, ma'am, i' good brown paper,
For us to read over when her comes back.
Will you step in, ma'am, an' sit you down?”
Well, the floor was clean'd, an' I'd got no scraper,
An' the ladies was busy for Mr. Brown;
So I wasna that sorry, I don't pertend,
When I heerd 'em say they wouldn't come in:
But if I'd bin a equal, or a friend,
They couldn't a spoke, when they did begin,
More kinder nor what they spoke to me.
For the young lady smiles, an' says so free,
“We should ha' bin glad to sit down a minute,
An' see your kitchen an' all that's in it,
But now we're busy a-canvassing;
An' you know it'd be such a dreadful thing,
An' quite disgraceful to this here town
If the parliament man was Smith an' not Brown.
But as for your tale,” the young lady says,
“I think you have told it uncommon well;
An' a very good story it is to tell,
An' I'm much obliged to you for it too;
For I like to find out, I really do,
About workin' folks an' their thoughts an' ways;
An' all what happens to women like you:
An' you've spoke it out so plump an' plain,
In a right straightforrard nateral way,
As I'd certainly like for to come again,
An' hear the rest some other day.”
“Well, ma'am,” I says, “you shall, I'm sure;
But it's ony a tale about the poor:
An' as for me, when all's done an' said,
I've never bin higher nor kitchen-maid.
But one thing, ma'am, if you woudna mind,
An' if you wouldna think it unkind—
I always reckon as folks like us,
What speaks their minds out straightaway,
An' canna talk grand, nor make no fuss,
You can understand 'em any day,
Better a deal, till what you can
A lady's talk, or a gentleman.
Aye, you may think I've no right to speak;
For I don't see a lady not once in a week:
Once in a week! no, nor once in a year—
Not to be talking as I be here.
But I do think gentlefolks talk so fine,
Wi' a mincin' way an' a wheedlin' whine,
An' smilin' an' makin' o' such pretences,
As it wherrets me out o' my seven senses
To think whatever my missis means,
If her's ony talkin' o' bacon an' greens.
But, ma'am,” I says, “you'll excuse my freedom:
Ladies is ladies, whenever I've seed 'em,
An' I wouldna be reckon'd not respectful,
Neither wi' them nor wi' gentlemen:
But you'll reckon me up, I lay, an' then—
You'll say, if I are just a bit neglectful,
I'm a hard-workin' servant, wi' all my chatter,
An' what I med say dunna very much matter.”
For I'd come to stop for a week, you know,
An' I'd stopp'd my week, an' a good bit more,
To clean an' scrub, so as her should go
Right away from yon smoky town
To our little cottage on Briarly Down;
Well, I was a-standing at her front door—
Not idlin', you may be sure o' that,
For I'd black'd the grate an' clean'd the floor,
Aye, black'd the grate till it shone like grease,
An' scour'd the floor on my hands an' knees,
An' tidied the hearth an' shook the mat,
An' clean'd the washhouse an' swill'd the yard,
An' dug the coals an' carried 'em in,
Till a few good hours I lay I'd bin
Sweatin' an' scrubbin' an' workin' hard—
An' at last, when I'd done down the bedroom stair,
I come to the door for a breath o' fresh air:
An' the day was hot, an' my word! thinks I,
Was there ever a wench like me?
Here i'the sun, where a body can see—
Hands an' arms an' face, I declare,
Black as a tinker—that I are!
But I thought, why, what do it signify?
38
They know I'm a good un to scour an' scrub,
Nor I don't much mind in a general way
If my face is as black as it is to-day
An' my hands an' arms all wet wi' grime,
Or if they're as clean as at evenin' time
When I soap 'em well wi' a brush an' a rub
Till they're red all over as red can be:
For mine is a servant's arms, you see;
I've bin a servant all my life,
An' if I'm now a bettermost wife,
D'ye think I'd alter my work an' ways
From what they was i' my coortin' days?
No, lad, not for a hunderd pound!
I'm the same rough creature now, what you found
In that theer spot where I seed you first;
An' when you'd gone I felt fit to burst
Wi' thinkin' o' what you had said to me
When you look'd at me so lovingly,
An' I know'd you'd got the very same face
What I'd seen afore, in the kitchen fire,
When I was a scullion, at my place:
But I never did think you was so much higher!
So, as I was a-sayin', I stood on the sill,
Sniffin' an' lookin' an' thinkin' no harm;
An' for all I did nothing but just stand still,
The sweat run down in grimy streaks
Over my forehead an' over my cheeks,
An' I wiped it off wi' the thick o' my arm;
An' neighbour Pragnell, her come by,
39
An' says, “Why, Hannah, you do look warm!”
“Warm?” I says, “Why, I sweats as free
As ever I did i' my scullery;
An' I wonder whatever our Emily do
Wi' a cottage like this, as is welly new,
An' yet it's as dusty, aye dustier far,
Nor yon old kitchen at Briarly are!
Aye, but I reckon I've clean'd it out,
An' swep it down an' sided it up,
Till the place is as smart as a brand-new cup;
An' you know, a regular cleanin'-bout
Is as good to me as rain to a duck—
For I do just like gettin' rid o' the muck!”
“Well, yo hanna got rid of it yet,” says she,
“For it's all gone on to your face, I see!”
Eh, I laugh'd! an' we both on us laugh'd right out:
Her is just fond of a joke, for sure,
And her reckons to call me a blackamoor.
Well, so I am, when there's work to be done:
An' I'm as clean, when the black is gone;
An' you don't mind it, I know that well,
For often an' often I've heerd you tell
As the blackest drudgery I ever do
Is as dear as a lady's talk to you!
So then, her nodded, an' popp'd inside;
An' I was beginnin' to think, ye see,
As I'd put on the kettle an' get my tea,
When I'd gien myself a bit of a souse
At the sink-trough in the little back-house;
40
And eh! whatever d'ye think I spied?
Why, two fine ladies a-walkin' along
Right in the middle of our poor yard!
Eh, but I did just stare pretty hard—
For I thought to myself, what, I canna be wrong,
But it's Mrs. Jones, the Captain's wife;
Did ye ever see such a thing i' your life?
Her was stout, but t'other was thin,
An' younger, a deal; an' I thought, oh lor!
Whatever can they be a-comin' here for?
For the old lady had such a beautiful shawl,
An' the young un look'd pretty an' sprightly an' all,
An' both on 'em spruce an' smart an' prim;
An' me in my rough hard-working trim!
Thinks I, they'll wonder at my queer charms;
For I thought o' my coarse black hands an' arms,
An' my face all dusty an' standin' wi' sweat,
An' my peasant's bonnet dirty an' wet,
An' my cotton frock an' my lindsey skirt,
An' my apron was nobbut a tater sack,
An' my big strong boots as was borrow'd o' Jack:
So here I am, thinks I, i' my dirt,
A rare fine sight for ladies to see!
Wi' that, I run indoors pretty sharp—
Into my hole like a mouldywarp.
But I hadna bin theer not the twist of a tail,
When I heerd them ladies knock at the door,
Callin' for Jack; eh, I did turn pale,
Wi' thinkin', what for was they callin' o' him?
41
Neither our Jack, nor Dick, nor Jim,
Wouldna do nothing like that would be.
So I went to the door—I was forced to go,
Just as I was, all black, you know.
Theer was the ladies; an' eh, my word,
Didn't they both on 'em stare at me!
“Oh!” says the one, “you're busy, I see,
So I'm sorry we've come; but of course you've heard
As your husband's got a vote for the town?
An' we've come to ax him to give it to Brown.”
“Oh, ma'am,” I says, “you're in a mistake;
For I'm ony here for our Emily's sake,
An' her master's at work, an' I canna say
If you'd ever find him at home to-day.”
“Well,” says the lady, “I'm sorry for that;
But maybe you'll tell him what we've bin at,
An' ax him to vote for Brown, you know?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I says; but I know'd no more
What Brown it was, nor I know'd afore;
I ony said it to make 'em go.
Aye, but they didn't! They look'd at me
Over an' over an' round an' round
An' up to my bonnet an' down to the ground,
As if I was set there for folks to see:
Till I thought I was got into such disgrace,
What wi' my clothes an' arms an' face,
As they wanted to make me a laughin' stock.
Well, that did give me a bit of a knock;
For they was real ladies, I could tell;
42
For I used to clean his boots, you know,
When he lodged wi' my missis at Merlinstow:
So I says, “I ax your pardon, ma'am,
But you seem to be wonderin' what I am!
I'm just a servant—an' if you please,
I've bin cleanin' this house on my hands an' knees,
An' that's the job as has made me black;
For I have to do for myself an' Jack,
Till our Emily brings her little uns back.
But if I'd ha' known as ladies like you
Was comin' to see us in this poor home,
I'd ha' clean'd myself afore you come.”
“Oh!” the young lady says, “it's true
We didn't expect you'd look as you do;
But when you're cleaning, there's not much harm
In a grimy face or a grimy arm;
An' you're quite like a picture—indeed you are;
More nor a lady could be, by far.”
Me like a picture? thinks I—oh dear,
If I was draw'd out, why I should look queer!
An' I felt a bit vex'd, for I know folks says
(Them as has lived wheer ladies ha' bin)
As a lady do have such wheedlin' ways—
Smiles wi' her lips, an' smiles wi' her eyes,
An' looks that dainty an' talks that wise,
As you canna tell what her reckons to mean;
An' half wi' her talkin' an' half wi' her smile,
Her maybe makes fun o' you all the while.
So I thought, are they makin' fun o' me?
43
An' her says, “You munna suppose,” her says,
“As we don't think well o' your working ways;
But why we look'd at you so hard
Was this; as we come up the yard
We both on us thought, my mother an' me,
As you look'd as Scotch as Scotch could be.”
“Scotch, ma'am?” I says; “Oh dear me, no!
I'm English born, as my tongue med show—
Wi' a little o' Welsh on my mother's side,
As her used to tell, for her had no pride—
A little o' Welsh, but I don't know what;
An' if I talk plain an' countrified,
Why, I lay theer's nothing o' Scotch in that;
For a English wench, if you'll only let her,
Talks as good as a Scotch un will, or better!”
“Aye—that,” says the lady, “I never can doubt;
But it wasna your talk we thought about,
It was your size; you're so big an' tall
An' hearty an' ruddy an' stout an' strong,
We thought you was Scotch—but it seems we're wrong.”
“No, ma'am,” I says, “I'm not Scotch at all;
I was born in a village not far from here,
Right at the end of the very next sheer—
I'm just a Sloppy, what they call:
Idsall's the name o' the place, if you please,
An' it lies i' the thick o' the Butterway Leas,
Not so far fro' the Breidon Hills;
An' Mrs. Flood o' the Watermills
(You'll ha' heerd tell o' her, ma'am, I dare say?)
44
From working afield, as I used to do,
An' got me a place, though not such a high 'un,
For I clean'd the pots at the Old Red Lion.
Yes, but I waited an' wash'd up too;
I did the work quite heartily,
For I liked my place, ma'am—I'll tell you why:
I used to wait on the ornary,
An' the farmers, when they seed me theer,
Many a one 'ud call me ‘My dear’—
For I was a youngling wench, though grown;
An' when I come round wi' the beggin' plate,
Maybe they'd chuck me under the chin,
But they always dropp'd a halfpenny in:
An' that was why I liked to wait—
For all them halfpence was all my own!
An' I never was much of a one to spend,
So I give 'em to mother at every week end;
An' ‘Mother,’ I says to her one day,
‘I hanna cost you much, I lay,
'Cept what you paid the doctor for me,
When he fetch'd me out o' the apple tree!’
Aye, an' my missis was kind, you see;
An' Miss Mary the daughter, her learn'd me a deal,
Summin' an' spellin'—I used to feel
I didn't know much at the Charity School!
Not as I reckon'd myself a fool;
An' they learnt us readin', an' writin' an' all,
An' samplers—my sampler's again yon wall;
But sums, they bested the likes o' we,
45
For the thing of all others as I liked most
Was when a letter 'ud come by the post,
An' missis 'ud give us a holiday,
'Cause we was order'd up to the Hall,
Big uns an' little uns, great an' small,
To weed the walks, an' sweep away
The leaves what litter'd the carriage-road.
I know'd that work, an' of course I know'd
As I should ha' sixpence for my wage;
But the best on it was, there was Mr. Page—
Butler, he was—as 'ud give us the treat
O' bread an' a slice o' butcher's meat,
What few on us never could get at home—
An' that was the way my good luck come:
It come all at once in a regular souse!
For while I lived at the public house,
A parcel come one day by the stage,
An' I had to take it to Mr. Page:
Eh, my word, ma'am! it did seem grand,
When I went wi' that parcel in my hand
Up to the kitchen at Butterway Hall
In my new straw bonnet an' new red shawl—
For I'd left the Bluecoat School, you know,
So I didna weer the livery now.
An' oh, what a kitchen it was, to be sure!
Not like the one as I lived in,
For this was as bright as a brand-new pin,
An' look'd so natty an' smelt so pure,
An' such fine covers again the wall,
46
An' pans like goold, though of course they was brass,
An' things as I didn't know what they was;
Till I thought, oh lor, what a thing it 'ud be
If I could get to be servant here!
Then Mr. Page, he come out to me,
An' me, when I seed him I did feel queer;
But I give him the parcel at once, you know;
An' he looks i' my face, an' he says, ‘Hollo!
Why, thou bist one o' the Charity School!’
‘Yes, sir,’ I says; an' he says again,
‘Aye, I remember thee now quite plain—
A willing wench, an' as strong as a mule!
Inna thee Martha Owen's child?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I says; an' of course I smiled,
To hear him speak so kind as that:
An' ‘Well then,’ he says, ‘I'll tell thee what—
Here's a new penny for what thou's done;
An' come wi' me, an' I'll show thee to one
As know'd thy mother 'fore thou was born!’
Eh, but I did feel all forlorn,
To go inside wi' a man like him!
I was all of a trem'le an' all of a sweat,
An' my legs did shake an' my eyes did swim;
No wonder, ma'am, for I'd never bin yet
In a house like that i' my life afore.
But soon we come to a parlour door;
And Mr. Page, he show'd me in:
My, what a beautiful room it were!
An' a lady was sittin' an' sewin' there—
47
Wi' glasses on, an' a double chin;
An' her gown was silk, an' her apron too,
As if her never had nothing to do.
You may think if I curtsied to one like her,
For I guess'd her med be the housekeeper;
I wasna wrong—it was Mrs. Page;
Her husband and her was much of a age,
An' he was butler an' managed the men,
But her hadna bin long i' the place, not then:
An' I'd never seen nobody half so fine,
Not to be nigh 'em as I was her;
So, thinks I, I'll take this here for a sign
As her winna find fault wi' my character.
Well, her look'd me up, and her look'd me down;
An' says Mr. Page, ‘Why you'd never ha' known
As Martha Owen was married nigh here—
For I quite forgot to tell you, my dear;
An' this young wench is a child o' hern.’
‘Lor!’ says the lady, ‘we live an’ learn—
But Martha Owen? Well, I never!
Young un, thy mother was good an' clever,
One as could tell the pot fro' the lid;
Her should ha' done better nor what her did!
For I tell thee, them was happy days,
When we both on us lived i' one family,
An' Martha was kitchenmaid under me.
Her could cook, then; but by what I've heerd,
Her hanna much practice now, I'm afeard.’
I didna like for to answer again,
48
As mother did cook for us every day,
Bacon an' that, in a humble way,
'Cept when her used to be lying in;
But I held my tongue—an' a good job too,
For the lady was just a-goin' to begin
Wi' axin' me what I had got to do.
‘Wheer are you livin'?’ her says; ‘by thy face
I should guess thou was looking out for a place.’
‘Well, ma'am,’ I says, ‘an' I should be proud
If you thought I could ever be allow'd
To live in a gentleman's family;
For my place is a good un, but not a high un—
I ony live at the Old Red Lion.’
‘What?’ says the lady, ‘a public house?
Why then, I doubt it can hardly be
As thou canst come to be under me:
But what, if my Lady 'll just hear reason—
For the under servants is nothing to her,
An' her leaves all that to the housekeeper—
When the family's down here after the season,
An' gentlemen comes to shoot the grouse,
We might manage it then, don't ye think so, Page?
For theer's that Betsy is just upon leaving—
Sent away for lying an' thieving—
So we're wanting another o' this one's age.
Come here,’ her says, ‘let me look at thee!’
Then I went near an' stood at her knee,
An' her look'd at me close, an' says, ‘Dear me,
It's wonderful how the likeness grows—
49
An' the very spit of our Martha's nose!’
Wi' that, her took an' pinch'd my arm:
Not as her wanted to make me cry,
Or thought for to do me a mite o' harm;
But it was to see if my arms was strong,
Firm i' the muscle, an' stout an' long,
Fit for a servant such as me:
So they was, ma'am, an' so they be!
For I've got a big stout arm, you see;
If it's red an' rough, as it is I know,
Why, real hard work have made it so:
An' a arm like mine, if it's me as says it,
Is a rare good thing for the woman as hes it.
Then the lady look'd at my hands, an' felt 'em,
An' lifted 'em up to her face, an' smelt 'em;
They was as sweet as hern, I lay,
But very different in every way;
They was nothing like what now they be—
All big an' spread wi' drudgery;
But wi' scourin' pots an' swillin' the yard
An' blackenin' grates an' scrubbin' floors
An' cleaning a good bit out o' doors,
They was granner'd a'ready, an' rough an' hard:
An' the lady smiled, an' says to me,
‘Thou knows what hard work is, I see;
Thou inna so nesh, for all thou'rt young;
An' hard-workin' hands an' a quiet tongue
Goes well together—they do, my wench:
Thou wouldna sit on a kitchen bench
50
So when thou sees thy mother, why then
Tell her I noticed thee up at the Hall;
An' tell her I'd like to see her again:
If I ha' got higher an' her's got lower,
That's not for to say I'm asham'd to know her.
But now,’ says the lady, ‘go thy ways;
An' if so be as thy mother wishes,
We shall maybe see thee one o' these days
Here in our scullery, washing dishes.’
Theer was a piece o' luck for me!
I back'd myself out respectfully,
An' off an' away down the carriage drive,
Whistlin' an' singin' all the way,
Wi' thinkin' how pleas'd poor mother 'ud be
An' what a good day's work I'd done to-day:
So that was how I begun to thrive
An' come to be scullion at Butterway Hall.
But lor, ma'am, what am I thinkin' about,
You'll reckon but little o' me, I doubt,
Tellin' my tale to ladies like you,
What you never told me nor wanted me to,
An' ony a tale of a scullery maid!
I ax your pardon,” I says, “I'm sure;
But I know'd you well, an' I've heerd it said
As you're fond o' goin' among the poor:
Aye, Emily says you give her a track—
An' it's safe in here, ma'am, i' good brown paper,
For us to read over when her comes back.
Will you step in, ma'am, an' sit you down?”
51
An' the ladies was busy for Mr. Brown;
So I wasna that sorry, I don't pertend,
When I heerd 'em say they wouldn't come in:
But if I'd bin a equal, or a friend,
They couldn't a spoke, when they did begin,
More kinder nor what they spoke to me.
For the young lady smiles, an' says so free,
“We should ha' bin glad to sit down a minute,
An' see your kitchen an' all that's in it,
But now we're busy a-canvassing;
An' you know it'd be such a dreadful thing,
An' quite disgraceful to this here town
If the parliament man was Smith an' not Brown.
But as for your tale,” the young lady says,
“I think you have told it uncommon well;
An' a very good story it is to tell,
An' I'm much obliged to you for it too;
For I like to find out, I really do,
About workin' folks an' their thoughts an' ways;
An' all what happens to women like you:
An' you've spoke it out so plump an' plain,
In a right straightforrard nateral way,
As I'd certainly like for to come again,
An' hear the rest some other day.”
“Well, ma'am,” I says, “you shall, I'm sure;
But it's ony a tale about the poor:
An' as for me, when all's done an' said,
I've never bin higher nor kitchen-maid.
But one thing, ma'am, if you woudna mind,
52
I always reckon as folks like us,
What speaks their minds out straightaway,
An' canna talk grand, nor make no fuss,
You can understand 'em any day,
Better a deal, till what you can
A lady's talk, or a gentleman.
Aye, you may think I've no right to speak;
For I don't see a lady not once in a week:
Once in a week! no, nor once in a year—
Not to be talking as I be here.
But I do think gentlefolks talk so fine,
Wi' a mincin' way an' a wheedlin' whine,
An' smilin' an' makin' o' such pretences,
As it wherrets me out o' my seven senses
To think whatever my missis means,
If her's ony talkin' o' bacon an' greens.
But, ma'am,” I says, “you'll excuse my freedom:
Ladies is ladies, whenever I've seed 'em,
An' I wouldna be reckon'd not respectful,
Neither wi' them nor wi' gentlemen:
But you'll reckon me up, I lay, an' then—
You'll say, if I are just a bit neglectful,
I'm a hard-workin' servant, wi' all my chatter,
An' what I med say dunna very much matter.”
Well—wi' that, my gossipin' come to a stand:
An' I thought to myself, it was ten to one
But them ladies 'ud go away half offended.
No, not a bit! They was none that grand,
Nor none that silly; though when they was gone,
I lay they'd say to theirsels alone
As my country manners med well be mended.
However, them ladies nodded to me
An' said “Good-bye,” as free as free;
Both on 'em did; aye, an' laugh'd quite hearty,
Just afore they went their ways,
At me speakin' up quite ignorant-like
About not understandin' what gentlefolks says;
An' the young lady answer'd, “Well, p'raps it's true
As ladies talk like you say they do;
But I wish they wouldn't, nor gentlemen neither;
For wi' men out o' work, an' men on strike,
I think we should all on us ack together,
Specially now at election time,
An' speak straightforrard an' plain, like you,
For to do some good to our nateral party.
So mind,” the lady says, “don't forget,
When Jack comes home from his work to-night,
Tell him not to vote for the Baronet
As is good for nothin' but waller in crime;
An' tell him to vote for the one as is right
An' does such credit to this good town:
That's him as I told you of, old John Brown.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I says, “I'll be sure to tell him;”
And so, I curtsied, an' off they went.
But I didna know much o' what it all meant;
An' when Jack come in, he wanted his tea,
An' was just as cross as cross could be;
Not over me but another man,
As Jack said he'd half a mind to fell him:
Though what he should fell him for, I don't know:
So I let him go on, when he'd once began;
For I'm not his wife, so if he's a fool
I've got no call for to tell him so.
But lor, that message the lady told—
Her med just as well ha' gone without it:
For what wi' tryin' to keep mysel' cool,
An' what wi' my tea a-gettin' cold,
An' Jack's bad temper, an' all that bother,
An' the washin' up, an' one thing an' other—
Bless your heart, I clean forgot all about it!
An' I thought to myself, it was ten to one
But them ladies 'ud go away half offended.
No, not a bit! They was none that grand,
53
I lay they'd say to theirsels alone
As my country manners med well be mended.
However, them ladies nodded to me
An' said “Good-bye,” as free as free;
Both on 'em did; aye, an' laugh'd quite hearty,
Just afore they went their ways,
At me speakin' up quite ignorant-like
About not understandin' what gentlefolks says;
An' the young lady answer'd, “Well, p'raps it's true
As ladies talk like you say they do;
But I wish they wouldn't, nor gentlemen neither;
For wi' men out o' work, an' men on strike,
I think we should all on us ack together,
Specially now at election time,
An' speak straightforrard an' plain, like you,
For to do some good to our nateral party.
So mind,” the lady says, “don't forget,
When Jack comes home from his work to-night,
Tell him not to vote for the Baronet
As is good for nothin' but waller in crime;
An' tell him to vote for the one as is right
An' does such credit to this good town:
That's him as I told you of, old John Brown.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I says, “I'll be sure to tell him;”
And so, I curtsied, an' off they went.
But I didna know much o' what it all meant;
An' when Jack come in, he wanted his tea,
An' was just as cross as cross could be;
Not over me but another man,
54
Though what he should fell him for, I don't know:
So I let him go on, when he'd once began;
For I'm not his wife, so if he's a fool
I've got no call for to tell him so.
But lor, that message the lady told—
Her med just as well ha' gone without it:
For what wi' tryin' to keep mysel' cool,
An' what wi' my tea a-gettin' cold,
An' Jack's bad temper, an' all that bother,
An' the washin' up, an' one thing an' other—
Bless your heart, I clean forgot all about it!
So now, lad, you've had a pretty good hearin'
O' my first bout at electioneerin'.
O' my first bout at electioneerin'.
55
Martha's Wedding.
It was stout Martha Dickenson,
A servant strong and good;
And leaning on the farmyard gate
Full pensively she stood:
A servant strong and good;
And leaning on the farmyard gate
Full pensively she stood:
“My mester's took another wife—
They're married now,” thought she;
“An' when they've sattled here again,
What will become o' me?
They're married now,” thought she;
“An' when they've sattled here again,
What will become o' me?
“Five blessed 'ear, I've work'd for him
Sence my owd missis died;
An' had my bit o' mate an' wage,
An' a reeght good place beside:
Sence my owd missis died;
An' had my bit o' mate an' wage,
An' a reeght good place beside:
“An missis, when her were alive,
So good her wuz an' kind,
My rough outside, my awkert ways,
Her never seem'd to mind.
So good her wuz an' kind,
My rough outside, my awkert ways,
Her never seem'd to mind.
“But theer's another missis now,
An' who knows what'll be?
Most like, her wunna care to keep
A noggen wench like me!
An' who knows what'll be?
Most like, her wunna care to keep
A noggen wench like me!
56
“I are a noggen wench, I know:
Now Jim is jead an' gone
I never car' for doos an' raps,
As other servants done;
Now Jim is jead an' gone
I never car' for doos an' raps,
As other servants done;
“I work an' work the time away;
An' them as fret an' whine
May have as good a character,
But not sich 'ands as mine!
An' them as fret an' whine
May have as good a character,
But not sich 'ands as mine!
“Theer's nowt like work, I al'ays says,
For keepin' trouble down;
An' my poor missis childern, too,
That's aumost like my own,
For keepin' trouble down;
An' my poor missis childern, too,
That's aumost like my own,
“Poor things! I vex the most for them:
For in her dyin' days
Her spake, an' left 'em, like, to me:
‘Yo'n love 'em, wench!’ her says:
For in her dyin' days
Her spake, an' left 'em, like, to me:
‘Yo'n love 'em, wench!’ her says:
“Love 'em? What better could I do?
An' they love me, an' all;
An' ouds my horny hand o' nights
Wi' their soft fingers small,
An' they love me, an' all;
An' ouds my horny hand o' nights
Wi' their soft fingers small,
“An' gi'es me all the kisses now
As I shall ever have!
I thought to be among 'em still,
An' still to toil an' slave:
As I shall ever have!
I thought to be among 'em still,
An' still to toil an' slave:
57
“But with a stepdame comin' whome
Big-sorted like, my stars!
What good is sich as me to her
As neither knows nor car's?
Big-sorted like, my stars!
What good is sich as me to her
As neither knows nor car's?
“A mercy, if her car's for them,
Poor orphan childern dear!
Stepmothers has a ugly name,
By all that I can 'ear;
Poor orphan childern dear!
Stepmothers has a ugly name,
By all that I can 'ear;
“An' if her puns 'em ooth her fist
Or scouds 'em wi' her tongue,
I couldna stand an' see it done—
An' them so nesh an' young!
Or scouds 'em wi' her tongue,
I couldna stand an' see it done—
An' them so nesh an' young!
“I'd better get my things, an' goo:
'Appen 't 'ull be too late,
When mester ooth his brand-new bride,
Cooms racklin' to the gate!”
'Appen 't 'ull be too late,
When mester ooth his brand-new bride,
Cooms racklin' to the gate!”
Thus freely to the farmyard fowls
Did Martha speak her mind;
Then, turning round upon the lane—
Her master stood behind!
Did Martha speak her mind;
Then, turning round upon the lane—
Her master stood behind!
She stared, she blush'd, she all but scream'd:
“Oh, sir, how could you go
To come upon one like a ghost,
An' scare a body so?
“Oh, sir, how could you go
To come upon one like a ghost,
An' scare a body so?
58
“We thoughten yo wun comin' whome,
But not like this, alone!
Weer's our new missis, if yo plase,
An' is the weddin' done?”
But not like this, alone!
Weer's our new missis, if yo plase,
An' is the weddin' done?”
“Not yet, my wench,” said Farmer Yates;
“Theer's summat still to do:
An' as thees't lived ooth me so loong,
I thought I'd tell it you.
“Theer's summat still to do:
An' as thees't lived ooth me so loong,
I thought I'd tell it you.
“I've bin an' bought the weddin' gownd,
Cost half a crownd a yard;
So, if I munna set the bonds,
It will be despert hard!”
Cost half a crownd a yard;
So, if I munna set the bonds,
It will be despert hard!”
“Bonds!” quoth his servant, “'eart alive!
Why, mester, binna yo wed?
We thought yo had bin ax'd i' church
An' so owd Tummas said.”
Why, mester, binna yo wed?
We thought yo had bin ax'd i' church
An' so owd Tummas said.”
“Owd Tummas is a cantin' auf!
Look here, wench: od's my life
How can I ha' the bonds put up,
Afore I've got the wife?”
Look here, wench: od's my life
How can I ha' the bonds put up,
Afore I've got the wife?”
“Wad, is oor missis still to get?
An', mester, innad it so,
The laady lives a loong way off
As is to marry yo?”
An', mester, innad it so,
The laady lives a loong way off
As is to marry yo?”
59
Her master he laugh'd loud and long:
“Martha,” says he, “no fear!
Yo'n seed her often, an' her lives—
Well, not so far throm 'ere.
“Martha,” says he, “no fear!
Yo'n seed her often, an' her lives—
Well, not so far throm 'ere.
“But, as for laadies, bless your heart!
They're not the sort for me:
Her is no laady, but a wench—
A servant wench, like thee.”
They're not the sort for me:
Her is no laady, but a wench—
A servant wench, like thee.”
“Like me!” the simple maid replied,
“Oh, mester, yo're to blame,
To gie a mother to your lads
Will put 'em all to shame!”
“Oh, mester, yo're to blame,
To gie a mother to your lads
Will put 'em all to shame!”
“Shame, sayst 'ee?” And the farmer smiled,
And took her homely hand,
And spake, as one whose offer'd love
Is very like command:
And took her homely hand,
And spake, as one whose offer'd love
Is very like command:
“Shame, sayst 'ee? Then the shame is mine:
For, wench, when all is done,
The only wife I want to have
Is Martha Dickenson!”—
For, wench, when all is done,
The only wife I want to have
Is Martha Dickenson!”—
What ails that stalwart maiden now?
Can neither speak nor stir,
For taking in the wondrous thought
That he is courting her!
Can neither speak nor stir,
For taking in the wondrous thought
That he is courting her!
60
She left her helpless hand in his:
“Oh, sir,” at length she said,
“You knows I had a sweetheart wunst,
Poor Jim—an' he is jead:
“Oh, sir,” at length she said,
“You knows I had a sweetheart wunst,
Poor Jim—an' he is jead:
“I never thought to love no more;
But still—to stop with you,
An' not to leave them childern dear—
Oh, can it all be true?”
But still—to stop with you,
An' not to leave them childern dear—
Oh, can it all be true?”
“True? Aye, as Gospel truth, it is!”
The sturdy swain replied;
“An', wench, if thou'st my servant now,
To-morrow, thee'lt be my bride!
The sturdy swain replied;
“An', wench, if thou'st my servant now,
To-morrow, thee'lt be my bride!
“I know how true thou wast to Jim;
An' I can easy guess
What makes my childern cling to thee,
Sence they've bin motherless;
An' I can easy guess
What makes my childern cling to thee,
Sence they've bin motherless;
“An' well I know, for me an' mine
Thee'st work'd this many a day
As hard as ever ooman did:
An' that's a jeal to say!
Thee'st work'd this many a day
As hard as ever ooman did:
An' that's a jeal to say!
“Stepmothers has a ugly name?
Eh, Martha? Well, for sure,
A-giving thee that ugly name
Will make it sweet an' pure!
Eh, Martha? Well, for sure,
A-giving thee that ugly name
Will make it sweet an' pure!
61
“Thee'st bin a mother to the lads;
An' troubles o' one's own
Mak's folks more kind an' pitiful
To them 'at's left alone:
An' troubles o' one's own
Mak's folks more kind an' pitiful
To them 'at's left alone:
“Bless yo, I've seen it many a time,
An' most of all in thee:
Thy heartiness, thy tidy ways,
Is just the thing for me.
An' most of all in thee:
Thy heartiness, thy tidy ways,
Is just the thing for me.
“I'm not a one to beg, thee knows;
I spake an' then ha' done:
So, when I thought o' this, thinks I
Our Martha is the one!
I spake an' then ha' done:
So, when I thought o' this, thinks I
Our Martha is the one!
“An' now I says it. Here's the ring—
The biggest I could buy:
Yore hands is big an' hard—but yet
'Twill fit—at laist we'n try.
The biggest I could buy:
Yore hands is big an' hard—but yet
'Twill fit—at laist we'n try.
“Aye, theer, it's on: an' mind thee this,
When thee'st a farmer's wife;
This here's the truest hand, save one,
I've held in all my life!
When thee'st a farmer's wife;
This here's the truest hand, save one,
I've held in all my life!
“Bonds, said I? Nay, no bonds for me!
I've got the license here:
Three wicks is o'er loong to wait,
This busy time o' 'ear;
I've got the license here:
Three wicks is o'er loong to wait,
This busy time o' 'ear;
62
“So, go yore ways an' don yore things,
An' dunna look so down:
Thee'lt love me for yore missis' sake;
I'll love thee for yore own.”
An' dunna look so down:
Thee'lt love me for yore missis' sake;
I'll love thee for yore own.”
And so it was: those two were wed,
As wed they justly may,
The farmer and the farmer's maid,
Upon the morrow day:
As wed they justly may,
The farmer and the farmer's maid,
Upon the morrow day:
And now in Farmer Yates's home
His children do rejoice
In having Martha for their own,
And listening to her voice,
His children do rejoice
In having Martha for their own,
And listening to her voice,
And clasping her about the neck,
As little children will:
Her hands are softer now—but yet
Her heart is softer still.
As little children will:
Her hands are softer now—but yet
Her heart is softer still.
63
John and Mary.
John, do you know what I say
When I see your face again?
I say to myself that you love me still,
And we have not loved in vain.
When I see your face again?
I say to myself that you love me still,
And we have not loved in vain.
All these many years
Since you first came courting me,
And we sat together, with mother's leave,
Under our apple-tree:
Since you first came courting me,
And we sat together, with mother's leave,
Under our apple-tree:
All these many years
We have wrought for our daily bread,
And kept ourselves to each other alone,
Though we couldn't afford to wed.
We have wrought for our daily bread,
And kept ourselves to each other alone,
Though we couldn't afford to wed.
John dear, look at my hand;
It's as hard with work as yours:
And the more its lines deepen and fingers get bent
The more my love endures.
It's as hard with work as yours:
And the more its lines deepen and fingers get bent
The more my love endures.
For nobody else, my lad,
Has gripp'd this hand, like you,
With a steadfast grip that makes one feel
It couldn't help being true.
Has gripp'd this hand, like you,
With a steadfast grip that makes one feel
It couldn't help being true.
64
Oh, how I did just smile
On Miss Laura's wedding day,
When I stood and heard our ladies talk
As the carriage drove away!
On Miss Laura's wedding day,
When I stood and heard our ladies talk
As the carriage drove away!
For they said, Her love for him
Must be very deep and strong,
Because she had waited a good three years—
And that was a deal too long.
Must be very deep and strong,
Because she had waited a good three years—
And that was a deal too long.
I smiled to myself, I did,
And thought if they only knew,
What would they think of the score of years
That I have waited for you!
And thought if they only knew,
What would they think of the score of years
That I have waited for you!
And now you say it is done,
And our waiting time is past;
You say I can leave as soon as I like,
And come home to you at last.
And our waiting time is past;
You say I can leave as soon as I like,
And come home to you at last.
Oh, John, you know very well
What a joyful day that'll be!
But don't you think that I pine to leave,
And don't you hurry for me.
What a joyful day that'll be!
But don't you think that I pine to leave,
And don't you hurry for me.
For I am your sweetheart still,
I am your only dear;
I could wait for you my whole life long,
If I only had you near:
I am your only dear;
I could wait for you my whole life long,
If I only had you near:
65
And every time, I say,
When I see your face again,
I say to myself that you are my own,
And we have not loved in vain.
When I see your face again,
I say to myself that you are my own,
And we have not loved in vain.
66
Her Refusal.
Ah weean't be tied te thee, mah lad—
Ah weean't be tied te noan!
Ah sticks te th' loife Ah's allas 'ad,
An' fraames te lig aloan.
Ah weean't be tied te noan!
Ah sticks te th' loife Ah's allas 'ad,
An' fraames te lig aloan.
Ere's yan 'at gies ma wark an' waage,
An' finnds mah maat an' o:
Wat for sud Ah fling aht o' th' caage
An' gan awaa wi' yo?
An' finnds mah maat an' o:
Wat for sud Ah fling aht o' th' caage
An' gan awaa wi' yo?
Aye, for yo said Ah was a bodd,
An' fit te sing i' t' tree:
A bonny bodd Ah is, mah wodd,
If Ah's te sing for thee!
An' fit te sing i' t' tree:
A bonny bodd Ah is, mah wodd,
If Ah's te sing for thee!
Naa, lad; Ah sings a bit i' chotch,
An' when Ah's be mesen;
Bud Ah sud nobbut mak a botch,
Te sing wi' oother men.
An' when Ah's be mesen;
Bud Ah sud nobbut mak a botch,
Te sing wi' oother men.
Ah's noan a bodd, then—nowt o' t' soort!
Ah's joost a sarvant lass:
An' if yo cooms te ma te coort,
Ah laa yo're seechin brass.
Ah's joost a sarvant lass:
An' if yo cooms te ma te coort,
Ah laa yo're seechin brass.
67
Yah—thoo's eerd tell Ah've saaved, naw doot;
An' thoo mun hev a bit!
Thoo'd lahk te seen t'owd stockin foot,
An' coot it dahn te fit.
An' thoo mun hev a bit!
Thoo'd lahk te seen t'owd stockin foot,
An' coot it dahn te fit.
Naw naw—it's ower big for thee;
It is, a varry deeal:
An' wits is cheap weer Ah cooms frae—
Ah isna sich a feeal.
It is, a varry deeal:
An' wits is cheap weer Ah cooms frae—
Ah isna sich a feeal.
Ah'll niver scrat an' deah for nowt
Te pleease anoother mon,
An' him a-spendin wat Ah browt,
Wahl ivery penny's gone!
Te pleease anoother mon,
An' him a-spendin wat Ah browt,
Wahl ivery penny's gone!
Ah addles waage, Ah keeps mesen—
Ah diz, an' allas will:
For them 'at hes te deah wi' men
Tha' maun ha' trooble still.
Ah diz, an' allas will:
For them 'at hes te deah wi' men
Tha' maun ha' trooble still.
Sweethearts! Ah reckons nowt on 'em,
Nor wat tha says te me:
Ah isn't yan te kuss an' clem,
Ah hadn't need te be!
Nor wat tha says te me:
Ah isn't yan te kuss an' clem,
Ah hadn't need te be!
An' Ah weean't ha' tha' for a maate;
Saw noo, Be off, Ah saa!
Ah's ower throng te stan' at gaate
An' this eawr weshin daa.
Saw noo, Be off, Ah saa!
Ah's ower throng te stan' at gaate
An' this eawr weshin daa.
68
Susan.
Our kitchen is a pleasant place:
My word, they'd think it a disgrace
To live here, them 'at bides upstairs
In parlours, wi' their fine folks' airs
An' music, an' the likes o' that;
But as for me, I'll tell thee what,
My lass, I'd liefer sit or stand
Down here, wi' meat an' drink at hand
An' this good fire to cook it by
An' me to do the cooking: aye,
An' cleaning too! I always says,
An' shall do, all my working days,
There's nothing nicer, if you're strong
An' used to scrubbing all day long,
Nor a good bout o' scouring floors,
Or cleaning places out o' doors.
That's what I calls enjoyment, now!
It makes you rare and black, I know,
An' makes you sweat; but sweat's a thing
Is reckon'd good for physicking;
An' as for dirt, the work you do
Of coorse it all comes off on you;
But what o' that? They canna tell
It's you, until you've wash'd yoursel.
Aye, marry; I remember well
When first I lived in yon queer spot—
What did they call it? I've forgot,
But all was gentlemen, ye see,
An' ne'er a woman, only me
An' Mrs. Codd the porter's wife;
My, I was teased out o' my life,
At first, for want o' knowing that.
I used to clean me, like a flat,
An' make mysel as neat an' nice
To see to, as a pound o' spice;
Clean cap an' apron every day
To wait on 'em, an' take away,
An' such-like jobs: an' all the while,
I never offer'd once to smile,
But look'd as grave as anything;
An' yet, I do believe they'd ring
An' have me up, would them young swells
(For I'd to answer all their bells)
O' purpose, just to look at me!
I was but seventeen, ye see,
Though tall and big—aye, just as tall
As I are now; an' wi' my shawl
An' bonnet, of a Sunday out,
I look'd a goodish size, no doubt.
My word, they'd think it a disgrace
To live here, them 'at bides upstairs
In parlours, wi' their fine folks' airs
An' music, an' the likes o' that;
But as for me, I'll tell thee what,
My lass, I'd liefer sit or stand
Down here, wi' meat an' drink at hand
An' this good fire to cook it by
An' me to do the cooking: aye,
An' cleaning too! I always says,
An' shall do, all my working days,
There's nothing nicer, if you're strong
An' used to scrubbing all day long,
Nor a good bout o' scouring floors,
Or cleaning places out o' doors.
That's what I calls enjoyment, now!
It makes you rare and black, I know,
An' makes you sweat; but sweat's a thing
Is reckon'd good for physicking;
An' as for dirt, the work you do
Of coorse it all comes off on you;
But what o' that? They canna tell
69
Aye, marry; I remember well
When first I lived in yon queer spot—
What did they call it? I've forgot,
But all was gentlemen, ye see,
An' ne'er a woman, only me
An' Mrs. Codd the porter's wife;
My, I was teased out o' my life,
At first, for want o' knowing that.
I used to clean me, like a flat,
An' make mysel as neat an' nice
To see to, as a pound o' spice;
Clean cap an' apron every day
To wait on 'em, an' take away,
An' such-like jobs: an' all the while,
I never offer'd once to smile,
But look'd as grave as anything;
An' yet, I do believe they'd ring
An' have me up, would them young swells
(For I'd to answer all their bells)
O' purpose, just to look at me!
I was but seventeen, ye see,
Though tall and big—aye, just as tall
As I are now; an' wi' my shawl
An' bonnet, of a Sunday out,
I look'd a goodish size, no doubt.
Well, when I went up to the door,
Bless you, I never thought no more
About myself an' how I look'd,
Nor these here taters, when they're cook'd,
Thinks o' their jackets or their dish:
It's true, I had a kind o' wish
As such fine gentlemen as yon
May like me, same as Mr. John
Or Mr. James here seems to do,
Saying, “Well, Susan, how are you?”
If chance I meet 'em on the stairs,
Or sees 'em going up to prayers;
But yon was different. Eh, my word,
They did it of their own accord,
For with my tongue nor with my eyes
I never took no liberties—
But it was wonderful, to see
The way they used to stare at me!
Says one, “You've got a pretty face,
You're far too good for this poor place.”
“Aye,” says another, “that she is!
An' Susan, I mun have a kiss,”
Says he—an' would ha' snatch'd it, too,
Like some gells would ha' let him do;
But I says, “No, sir, if ye please!
If I are bringing up your teas,
An' servant here, that's not to say
As you're to mock me, any way.”
“Mock you?” says he; but when he seed
'At I were one o' such a breed
As neither him nor nobody
May venter for to mell wi' me
Again my will, why then he dropp'd it:
An' if he hadn't, I'd ha' stopp'd it
Uncommon quick; I arena fear'd
O' naught belonging to a beard;
For why, you needna whimp nor whine,
If once you've got a arm like mine.
Bless you, I never thought no more
About myself an' how I look'd,
Nor these here taters, when they're cook'd,
70
It's true, I had a kind o' wish
As such fine gentlemen as yon
May like me, same as Mr. John
Or Mr. James here seems to do,
Saying, “Well, Susan, how are you?”
If chance I meet 'em on the stairs,
Or sees 'em going up to prayers;
But yon was different. Eh, my word,
They did it of their own accord,
For with my tongue nor with my eyes
I never took no liberties—
But it was wonderful, to see
The way they used to stare at me!
Says one, “You've got a pretty face,
You're far too good for this poor place.”
“Aye,” says another, “that she is!
An' Susan, I mun have a kiss,”
Says he—an' would ha' snatch'd it, too,
Like some gells would ha' let him do;
But I says, “No, sir, if ye please!
If I are bringing up your teas,
An' servant here, that's not to say
As you're to mock me, any way.”
“Mock you?” says he; but when he seed
'At I were one o' such a breed
As neither him nor nobody
May venter for to mell wi' me
Again my will, why then he dropp'd it:
An' if he hadn't, I'd ha' stopp'd it
71
O' naught belonging to a beard;
For why, you needna whimp nor whine,
If once you've got a arm like mine.
But, when I told it Mrs. Codd,
As was my missis, “Well, it's odd,”
Her says, “They should keep on at thee
Wi' all their kissing foolery,
When they've got ladies for to buss!
I lay they only make a fuss
About thee, 'cause thy cheeks is fresh—
Thou's got a colour on thy flesh,
An' always looks so spick an' span:
But, lass, there's ne'er a gentleman
But what 'ud think it a disgrace
To look at thee or touch thy face,
If he med see thee in thy dirt.”
Her says, “It's like a clean white shirt—
Just let it get a speck o' grime,
It winna do another time;
But we mun wash an' starch it clear,
Afore they'll think it fit to weer.”
As was my missis, “Well, it's odd,”
Her says, “They should keep on at thee
Wi' all their kissing foolery,
When they've got ladies for to buss!
I lay they only make a fuss
About thee, 'cause thy cheeks is fresh—
Thou's got a colour on thy flesh,
An' always looks so spick an' span:
But, lass, there's ne'er a gentleman
But what 'ud think it a disgrace
To look at thee or touch thy face,
If he med see thee in thy dirt.”
Her says, “It's like a clean white shirt—
Just let it get a speck o' grime,
It winna do another time;
But we mun wash an' starch it clear,
Afore they'll think it fit to weer.”
Well, so I thought o' what her'd said:
Thinks I, I are a servant-maid,
An' as for them to sweetheart me,
You can't expect it, certainly.
No, nor I shouldna wish 'em to;
They arena fit for me an' you,
Such folks as them; you canna feel
As they'd be true, there's such a deal
O' fauseness in 'em, wi' their breeding,
An' uppish ways, an' dainty feeding:
I'd liefer trust our Tom or Jack,
What takes me as I are, an' black
If black I be. Well, what d'ye think?
Next morning early, me an' Spink,
Our sweep, was taking up the soot—
For I'd swep down the chimley foot,
An' him the flue; an' when we'd done,
He says (he's such a joking one,
Is Spink), “My lass,” he says, “I see
Thou's made thysel as black as me!”
I laugh'd a bit; for sure enough
My face an' arms was black an' rough
Wi' soot, an' coller off the grate;
But for all that, I didna wait—
I took an' laid the kitchen fire,
An' lighted it, an' blow'd it higher;
An' then, as hearty as you please,
I clean'd the hearth upon my knees,
An' fell to singging at the job.
It's better for to sing, nor sob;
But all at once, to stop my singging,
I heerd the front-door bell a-ringing.
Thinks I, I are a servant-maid,
An' as for them to sweetheart me,
You can't expect it, certainly.
No, nor I shouldna wish 'em to;
They arena fit for me an' you,
Such folks as them; you canna feel
72
O' fauseness in 'em, wi' their breeding,
An' uppish ways, an' dainty feeding:
I'd liefer trust our Tom or Jack,
What takes me as I are, an' black
If black I be. Well, what d'ye think?
Next morning early, me an' Spink,
Our sweep, was taking up the soot—
For I'd swep down the chimley foot,
An' him the flue; an' when we'd done,
He says (he's such a joking one,
Is Spink), “My lass,” he says, “I see
Thou's made thysel as black as me!”
I laugh'd a bit; for sure enough
My face an' arms was black an' rough
Wi' soot, an' coller off the grate;
But for all that, I didna wait—
I took an' laid the kitchen fire,
An' lighted it, an' blow'd it higher;
An' then, as hearty as you please,
I clean'd the hearth upon my knees,
An' fell to singging at the job.
It's better for to sing, nor sob;
But all at once, to stop my singging,
I heerd the front-door bell a-ringing.
I'd got my old hood-bonnet on,
An' coorse striped apron (that's the one
You've seed me weering many a time,
An' thick it gets wi' slush an' grime
A-scouring) an' my cotton frock
Loop'd up above my lindsey smock,
An' good strong boots: Oh dear, oh dear,
Thinks I, I do look precious queer
To see a front-door visitor!
An' when I open'd it, Oh Lor!
Theer stood that very gentleman
As seed me looking spick an' span
The night afore, an' actually
Had tried to snatch a kiss o' me.
But when I held the door for him,
An' look'd so dirty an' so grim,
He stared, but never said a word,
No more nor if he'd been a lord;
He walk'd right in; an' I could tell
My sooty face had served me well.
An' coorse striped apron (that's the one
You've seed me weering many a time,
An' thick it gets wi' slush an' grime
A-scouring) an' my cotton frock
73
An' good strong boots: Oh dear, oh dear,
Thinks I, I do look precious queer
To see a front-door visitor!
An' when I open'd it, Oh Lor!
Theer stood that very gentleman
As seed me looking spick an' span
The night afore, an' actually
Had tried to snatch a kiss o' me.
But when I held the door for him,
An' look'd so dirty an' so grim,
He stared, but never said a word,
No more nor if he'd been a lord;
He walk'd right in; an' I could tell
My sooty face had served me well.
So then, what missis says is true
Thinks I; an' I know what I'll do;
I'll be as grimy as I can
When I've to meet a gentleman!
That's how I did it: not all day,
Of coorse, for I'd to take away,
An' bring their breakfasts an' their teas;
But often I was on my knees,
A-blacking grates, or scrubbing floors,
Or cleaning paint on walls an' doors,
When they come by; an' always then
I used to face the gentlemen
Looking as clarty as I could.
Oh Betsy, it 'ud do you good
To see how I disgusted 'em!
I lay they wouldna touch'd the hem
O' my poor clothes—as was so free,
An' used to make so much o' me!
Aye, even when I'd got to coom
A-waiting on 'em in the room,
They seldom noticed me again;
For why, I always look'd that plain—
Not over neat nor over smart,
Nor nothing as could give 'em heart;
But often wi' a reddish face
An' soapy-scrubb'd. I kept my place,
An' so at last I learnt 'em theirn.
Thinks I; an' I know what I'll do;
I'll be as grimy as I can
When I've to meet a gentleman!
That's how I did it: not all day,
Of coorse, for I'd to take away,
An' bring their breakfasts an' their teas;
But often I was on my knees,
A-blacking grates, or scrubbing floors,
Or cleaning paint on walls an' doors,
When they come by; an' always then
I used to face the gentlemen
Looking as clarty as I could.
Oh Betsy, it 'ud do you good
To see how I disgusted 'em!
74
O' my poor clothes—as was so free,
An' used to make so much o' me!
Aye, even when I'd got to coom
A-waiting on 'em in the room,
They seldom noticed me again;
For why, I always look'd that plain—
Not over neat nor over smart,
Nor nothing as could give 'em heart;
But often wi' a reddish face
An' soapy-scrubb'd. I kept my place,
An' so at last I learnt 'em theirn.
You've maybe seen a smutty bairn,
As folks'll kiss it when it's clean,
But not o' weekdays; well, I mean
As I was pretty much like that:
I always know'd what I was at,
An' Sundays, I'd no eall to fear;
For why, no gentlemen was theer;
So, of a Sunday, I could rest
An' walk to church in all my best—
As good a bonnet, shawl, an' gown
As any servant in the town.
Well, theer I lived, a pretty while;
As folks'll kiss it when it's clean,
But not o' weekdays; well, I mean
As I was pretty much like that:
I always know'd what I was at,
An' Sundays, I'd no eall to fear;
For why, no gentlemen was theer;
So, of a Sunday, I could rest
An' walk to church in all my best—
As good a bonnet, shawl, an' gown
As any servant in the town.
An' they did nothing, only smile
An' nod at me, a time or two,
Like master do to me an' you,
If chance I met 'em in the street.
But mostly I was at their feet,
75
An' when they seed me work that hard,
A-scrubbing in the dirt an' sludge
An' looking such a reg'lar drudge,
They'd say, “Well, Susan, here you are—
As black as ever, I declare!”
An' sometimes, when I had to crawl
Across the doorway in the hall,
They'd come behind, a-going out,
An' ax me what I was about;
So then, I rests upon my hands
An' looks up at him wheer he stands,
An' says, “The emest way 'ud be
To please, sir, just step over me;”
An' so he always did, ye see.
But once, when none on 'em was in
(By what I thought), for all their din
O' music an' o' pleasuring
Was quiet, I went up to bring
The parlour scuttle full o' coals;
An' bless us! theer was Mr. Knowles,
A-sitting in his easy-chair!
I jump'd, an' he begun to stare
At me, an' wonder what I mean'd;
For I was wash'd an' welly clean'd,
By reason it was evening-time;
An' all the sweat an' dust an' grime
Was off my face; my sleeves was down,
An' I'd got on a tidy gown,
Clean apron, an' a clean white cap:
76
An' I was smarten'd up for him.
But Mr. Knowles look'd just as grim,
An' says, “Hollo, girl! Is it you?”
An' axes what I want to do;
An' then he ups, an' says again,
“Why, Susan, now I see you plain—
My lass, wherever have you been?
Your pretty face is sweet an' clean,
An' you're as nice as nice can be;
By Jove!” he says, “I'd no idee
As you could ever look so well!
My dear, you're quite a kitchen belle,”
Says he. Of coorse I couldna tell,
Nor didna care not one brass farden,
What that meant; but I ax'd his parden
For coming in like unbeknown,
An' catching of him all alone,
An' never knock'd; an' “Sir,” says I,
(You see, I spoke respectfully,
An' yet I scarce could stand his cheek,
But seem'd like bounden for to speak),
“Sir, if the kitchen bell did ring,
As you say, it's a curous thing
I never heerd it!” Well—wi' that,
He laugh'd right out! I tell thee what,
Betsy, I felt as mad as mad,
To think o' what a tongue he had
For fooling of such folks as us!
But still, I never made no fuss,
77
For all he call'd to me to stay.
Then, next job was, the master come—
My missis' master: for his home
Was somewheers else; but now an' then
He'd come to see the gentlemen
An' spy how things was getting on.
My word, he was a cunning mon!
But I should say (although it's true
I dunno much—no more do you),
Still, I should reckon by his talk,
An' by his boots an' by his walk,
He wasna born a gentleman.
Aye, I can tell 'em, that I can,
Wi' waiting on 'em toe to heel
An' living with 'em such a deal!
He come o' Saturday, worse luck,
When I was in the thick o' muck,
Black as a tinker; cleaning boots
An' grates, an' helping at the shoots
Among the coalmen, getting coals
Into the cellar. All the holes
Was smother'd up an' black wi' dust;
An' I was in it, an' the wust,
'Cause I had got the roughest trade:
I was below, an' wi' my spade
I took an' levell'd all the crown,
Fast as them coals come lumbering down.
I sweated in that blessed place
A good half-hour; an' eh, my face
How black it was! an' in my eyes,
An' up my nose, the coal-dust flies
As I could hardly breathe for it.
I'd got just tired above a bit,
An' glad enough to hear 'em shout
Down the big shoot, at me, “All's out!”—
Thinks I, I'll go an' wash mysel,
At least my face, for fear the bell
Should ring for me to go upstairs.
But, all at once, there comes an' stares
A big man like a officer;
“Hollo!” says he, an' I says “Sir?”
An' wonder'd at him, what he meant.
Right to the kitchen then he went,
An' Mrs. Codd come out to him
A-trembling-like in every limb.
Thinks I, I lay it's missis' master!
An' I must say, my heart beat faster
To think o' what a fright I look'd.
Our dinner wasna' hardly cook'd,
An' all the place was in a mess;
But he walk'd in, an' says, “Oh yes,
Yes, Mrs. Codd, I'm come to see
If you've got any news for me.
But what's yon dirty creature theer,”
Says he (for I was standing near),
“As looks like any chimney-sweep?”
“Lor, sir, it's just the maid we keep,”
Says missis, “for to clean an' scrub,
An' help me at the washing-tub,
An' wait upstairs; an' now, poor soul!
Her's getting in a load o' coal,
Or was, a bit sin'.” “Aye,” he says,
“You want a maid, a many ways;
But this one seems a queerish figure;
A thorough picter of a nigger!
Just tell her for to come inside,
As I may see her.” Well, I tried
To keep mysel behind the door,
So as he shouldna see no more
Nor I could help, o' what I was;
But it was all no good. “My lass,”
Says he; “nay, dunna hide thysel;
I want to see what sort o' gell
Is servant in this house o' mine.”
Then Mrs. Codd give me a sign
Behind his back; so I come out
An' show'd mysel—not quite so stout
As I are now, but just as big;
An' staring like a new-stuck pig,
To think as he should see me so.
For I was very black, you know,
An' must ha' look'd uncommon silly,
Standing afore him, willy nilly,
An' fair ashamed. But after all,
I had no need to feel so small:
For honest work is no disgrace,
If it do black your arms an' face.
My missis' master: for his home
Was somewheers else; but now an' then
He'd come to see the gentlemen
An' spy how things was getting on.
My word, he was a cunning mon!
But I should say (although it's true
I dunno much—no more do you),
Still, I should reckon by his talk,
An' by his boots an' by his walk,
He wasna born a gentleman.
Aye, I can tell 'em, that I can,
Wi' waiting on 'em toe to heel
An' living with 'em such a deal!
He come o' Saturday, worse luck,
When I was in the thick o' muck,
Black as a tinker; cleaning boots
An' grates, an' helping at the shoots
Among the coalmen, getting coals
Into the cellar. All the holes
Was smother'd up an' black wi' dust;
An' I was in it, an' the wust,
'Cause I had got the roughest trade:
I was below, an' wi' my spade
I took an' levell'd all the crown,
Fast as them coals come lumbering down.
I sweated in that blessed place
78
How black it was! an' in my eyes,
An' up my nose, the coal-dust flies
As I could hardly breathe for it.
I'd got just tired above a bit,
An' glad enough to hear 'em shout
Down the big shoot, at me, “All's out!”—
Thinks I, I'll go an' wash mysel,
At least my face, for fear the bell
Should ring for me to go upstairs.
But, all at once, there comes an' stares
A big man like a officer;
“Hollo!” says he, an' I says “Sir?”
An' wonder'd at him, what he meant.
Right to the kitchen then he went,
An' Mrs. Codd come out to him
A-trembling-like in every limb.
Thinks I, I lay it's missis' master!
An' I must say, my heart beat faster
To think o' what a fright I look'd.
Our dinner wasna' hardly cook'd,
An' all the place was in a mess;
But he walk'd in, an' says, “Oh yes,
Yes, Mrs. Codd, I'm come to see
If you've got any news for me.
But what's yon dirty creature theer,”
Says he (for I was standing near),
“As looks like any chimney-sweep?”
“Lor, sir, it's just the maid we keep,”
Says missis, “for to clean an' scrub,
79
An' wait upstairs; an' now, poor soul!
Her's getting in a load o' coal,
Or was, a bit sin'.” “Aye,” he says,
“You want a maid, a many ways;
But this one seems a queerish figure;
A thorough picter of a nigger!
Just tell her for to come inside,
As I may see her.” Well, I tried
To keep mysel behind the door,
So as he shouldna see no more
Nor I could help, o' what I was;
But it was all no good. “My lass,”
Says he; “nay, dunna hide thysel;
I want to see what sort o' gell
Is servant in this house o' mine.”
Then Mrs. Codd give me a sign
Behind his back; so I come out
An' show'd mysel—not quite so stout
As I are now, but just as big;
An' staring like a new-stuck pig,
To think as he should see me so.
For I was very black, you know,
An' must ha' look'd uncommon silly,
Standing afore him, willy nilly,
An' fair ashamed. But after all,
I had no need to feel so small:
For honest work is no disgrace,
If it do black your arms an' face.
80
Well, theer I stood, a-curtseying,
Like any cat afore a king!
The master look'd at me, he did,
He look'd me up an' down, an' hid
The spot o' sunlight with his hand,
An' put his glasses on. “Just stand
More in the light a bit,” he says;
An' so I did. In all my days
I never seed a man like him;
So cunning-looking, an' so grim—
He look'd as if he'd eat you up!
Says he, “Well, here's a pretty pup
For my clean kennel! Housekeeper,
Wherever did you light on her?”
Like any cat afore a king!
The master look'd at me, he did,
He look'd me up an' down, an' hid
The spot o' sunlight with his hand,
An' put his glasses on. “Just stand
More in the light a bit,” he says;
An' so I did. In all my days
I never seed a man like him;
So cunning-looking, an' so grim—
He look'd as if he'd eat you up!
Says he, “Well, here's a pretty pup
For my clean kennel! Housekeeper,
Wherever did you light on her?”
Then Mrs. Codd turn'd gashly pale,
A-telling him a longish tale
Of how the other wench had gone,
An' her to do the work alone,
An' went at last to Texley Fair
An' hired me. I didna care,
So long as I'd not got to speak;
But missis was that nesh an' weak,
An' seem'd so despertly afeard
O' master an' his big black beard,
It made me feel quite sperrited:
An' at the end, he out an' said,
Says he, “The wench is tall an' strong;
But, Mrs. Codd, you did quite wrong
To hire a dirty slut like this is,
An' not tell me, nor yet my missis.”
“Lor, sir,” says she, “you're quite mistook!
As black as ever her may look
Now wi' them coals, her's not a slut;
Just let me send her off, to put
A decent cap an' apron on,
An' wash her, an' you'll say she's one
As has a honest country face,
An' good enough for any place!”
Wi' that her tipp'd me just a wink;
An' off I started to the sink,
All in a hurry an' a worry,
An' set to work in such a flurry
To wash me at the scullery tap;
An' donn'd a tidy muslin cap
An' clean white apron, an' got back
In less than no time. Eh, my Jack
How he'd a jump'd to see the change,
An' kiss'd me for it, too! It's strange,
But this here master didn't, though.
He look'd as he could hardly know
I was the wench he seed afore;
The more he look'd at me, the more
He seem'd to like me not so well,
Now I was got respectable.
“Ho, ho!” says he, “I see your game!
An' Mrs. Codd, you're much to blame:
The girl is not a slut—Why, no,
Only you please to make her so.
You've spoilt a pretty face, I see,
O' purpose for to take in me.
Aye, but you canna do it, then!
There's not one servant-maid in ten
'Ud look as taking an' as nice
As this, nor fetch as good a price
Among them gentlemen o' mine,
If once her was but drest up fine.
Why, now her face is wash'd an' clean,
A better never could be seen
In all the parish, I'll be bound.
An' so, you think to bring me round
To let her stop here, do you, eh?
Thou artful hussey, thou!” says he,
“I'll learn thee how to keep thy place
By blacking o' thy minx's face,
An' coming out a make-believe
Afore thy master to deceive!
I'll learn thee how to smirk an' smile
Wi' lips an' eyes as full o' guile
As eggs is full o' meat!” My word!
I wouldn't o' my own accord
Ha' said a word to him, not I;
But when he spoke a-thatns, why
I couldna help but answer him,
For all he look'd so fierce and grim.
“What, sir!” says I, “d'ye think I care
For gentlemen? D'ye think I are
What you make out? Why no, indeed!
I lay my life you never seed
A harder-working wench nor me,
An' one as always wants to be
Just what her is.” “Hold thy daft tongue,”
Says he; “thou is a deal too young
To start off answering again!
But Mrs. Codd, I tell you plain,
This very day you'll give her warning,
An' pay her off to-morrow morning.”
Well, Betsy, what d'ye think o' that?
A-telling him a longish tale
Of how the other wench had gone,
An' her to do the work alone,
An' went at last to Texley Fair
An' hired me. I didna care,
So long as I'd not got to speak;
But missis was that nesh an' weak,
An' seem'd so despertly afeard
O' master an' his big black beard,
It made me feel quite sperrited:
An' at the end, he out an' said,
Says he, “The wench is tall an' strong;
But, Mrs. Codd, you did quite wrong
To hire a dirty slut like this is,
An' not tell me, nor yet my missis.”
81
As black as ever her may look
Now wi' them coals, her's not a slut;
Just let me send her off, to put
A decent cap an' apron on,
An' wash her, an' you'll say she's one
As has a honest country face,
An' good enough for any place!”
Wi' that her tipp'd me just a wink;
An' off I started to the sink,
All in a hurry an' a worry,
An' set to work in such a flurry
To wash me at the scullery tap;
An' donn'd a tidy muslin cap
An' clean white apron, an' got back
In less than no time. Eh, my Jack
How he'd a jump'd to see the change,
An' kiss'd me for it, too! It's strange,
But this here master didn't, though.
He look'd as he could hardly know
I was the wench he seed afore;
The more he look'd at me, the more
He seem'd to like me not so well,
Now I was got respectable.
“Ho, ho!” says he, “I see your game!
An' Mrs. Codd, you're much to blame:
The girl is not a slut—Why, no,
Only you please to make her so.
You've spoilt a pretty face, I see,
O' purpose for to take in me.
82
There's not one servant-maid in ten
'Ud look as taking an' as nice
As this, nor fetch as good a price
Among them gentlemen o' mine,
If once her was but drest up fine.
Why, now her face is wash'd an' clean,
A better never could be seen
In all the parish, I'll be bound.
An' so, you think to bring me round
To let her stop here, do you, eh?
Thou artful hussey, thou!” says he,
“I'll learn thee how to keep thy place
By blacking o' thy minx's face,
An' coming out a make-believe
Afore thy master to deceive!
I'll learn thee how to smirk an' smile
Wi' lips an' eyes as full o' guile
As eggs is full o' meat!” My word!
I wouldn't o' my own accord
Ha' said a word to him, not I;
But when he spoke a-thatns, why
I couldna help but answer him,
For all he look'd so fierce and grim.
“What, sir!” says I, “d'ye think I care
For gentlemen? D'ye think I are
What you make out? Why no, indeed!
I lay my life you never seed
A harder-working wench nor me,
An' one as always wants to be
83
Says he; “thou is a deal too young
To start off answering again!
But Mrs. Codd, I tell you plain,
This very day you'll give her warning,
An' pay her off to-morrow morning.”
A pretty story to be at—
Me to be took an' scolded so
For things as I no more could know
Or think on, nor the babe unborn!
Good Lord! a wench like me 'ud scorn
To be beholden for I love ye
To them as is too far above ye
To court you in the reg'lar way:
Besides, I'd got my Jack. I lay
If he'd ha' heerd the master's tune
He'd ha' been at him pretty soon
Wi' worser words nor mine was—theer!
But, lass, I did feel precious queer,
Forced to give up a honest place
Only for blacking o' my face
To save mysel' a worse disgrace
Nor any soot or grime could be.
Still, it was lucky; for ye see
It wasna long afore I come
To have this kitchen for my home,
An' you my fellow-servant, Bess.
Theer's better homes nor this—oh yes;
84
An' what for work, an' what for food,
An' two good masters, an' no missis,
I reckon it's a rare un, this is.
Aye, an' I'll keep it till I wed:
For Mr. John, you know, he said
(When I was telling him o' Jack,
An' how I reckon'd he'd be back
An' over here by Wissuntide,
An' may I ax him, sir), he sigh'd,
Did Mr. John, I dunno why,
An' says, “Why, Susan, certainly!
An' when thou's fix'd thy wedding day,”
Says he, “I'll give the bride away,
An' her shall have a wedding gown
An' wedding dinner, all her own,
In this here house,” says Mr. John.
That's what I call a proper mon,
Free-handed like, an' fit to be
A master over you an' me!
But Betsy, what was that theer knock?
Just go, lass, an' undo the lock—
It's maybe Jack! An' here I are,
Rough apron, an' my arms all bare,
An' ne'er a glass to see me in,
Short of our attic! What a din
His knuckles makes! Run quick, an' do it—
Tell him as I are chopping suet,
An' he'll believe you. Then you'll see
If Jack have got a kiss for me.
85
Bonne à tout faire.
She clean'd his dainty boots once more;
Then in the dawning dim
She left them at his chamber door,
And knock'd, and spoke to him.
Then in the dawning dim
She left them at his chamber door,
And knock'd, and spoke to him.
“Please sir, I've brought your boots,” she said,
“An' your hot water can:”
For she was but a servant-maid,
And he, a gentleman.
“An' your hot water can:”
For she was but a servant-maid,
And he, a gentleman.
She waited on his morning meal,
All silent and demure;
She was not hired to speak or feel,
But only to endure.
All silent and demure;
She was not hired to speak or feel,
But only to endure.
He, from the table she had laid,
Enjoy'd without a thought
The fire her blacken'd hands had made,
The breakfast she had brought;
Enjoy'd without a thought
The fire her blacken'd hands had made,
The breakfast she had brought;
While she, as woman only can,
Still made his wants her own,
And from the chamber, like a man,
Bore all his luggage down,
Still made his wants her own,
And from the chamber, like a man,
Bore all his luggage down,
86
And listen'd for his well-known bell,
Her daily messenger
Of comfort—for it used to tell
That he had need of her.
Her daily messenger
Of comfort—for it used to tell
That he had need of her.
So had he now; yet when it rung
She thought, she knew not why,
That the old welcome in its tongue
Was very like good-bye.
She thought, she knew not why,
That the old welcome in its tongue
Was very like good-bye.
Still, from her dwelling underground
She flew to answer it;
By duty and by habit bound
To that sweet benefit.
She flew to answer it;
By duty and by habit bound
To that sweet benefit.
She flew, but with a beating heart
That quiver'd, like the bell:
For she must play her mistress' part,
And bid the guest farewell.
That quiver'd, like the bell:
For she must play her mistress' part,
And bid the guest farewell.
“Sir, missis sent me with the bill—
And I was told to say
You'll please excuse her to be ill
When you're a-going away!”
And I was told to say
You'll please excuse her to be ill
When you're a-going away!”
That was the formula she chose;
Revolving in her mind
How best to speak such words as those,
And not to seem unkind.
Revolving in her mind
How best to speak such words as those,
And not to seem unkind.
87
She spoke them, wondering as she heard
What she herself did say;
And twitch'd her apron at each word,
And wish'd herself away.
What she herself did say;
And twitch'd her apron at each word,
And wish'd herself away.
“Ah yes,” he said, and threw his glance
Not on that modest maid,
Whose still and sober countenance
His looks had well repaid,
Not on that modest maid,
Whose still and sober countenance
His looks had well repaid,
But on the paper that she bore—
“'Tis settled now,” said he;
“Go, call a hansom to the door,
And come again to me.”
“'Tis settled now,” said he;
“Go, call a hansom to the door,
And come again to me.”
“Oh sir, your cab's a-waiting now,
Wi' all your things inside—
Except the big portmantelow,
As on the roof is tied.”
Wi' all your things inside—
Except the big portmantelow,
As on the roof is tied.”
“What?” cried the guest, aroused at length;
“Why, Mary, this is kind!
I never knew you had such strength
And such a careful mind.”
“Why, Mary, this is kind!
I never knew you had such strength
And such a careful mind.”
“Law, sir,” she answer'd quietly,
“Your things is only few;
An' as for carrying luggage, why
It's what I always do.”
“Your things is only few;
An' as for carrying luggage, why
It's what I always do.”
88
“Do you?” said he; and rose, and cast
One long keen look on her;
“Do you? Then we have found at last
A perfect character.”
One long keen look on her;
“Do you? Then we have found at last
A perfect character.”
‘Sir?” said poor Mary, all amazed
At those strange words of his;
‘Sir?” But he only stood and gazed;
And all he said was this:—
At those strange words of his;
‘Sir?” But he only stood and gazed;
And all he said was this:—
“Mary, I'm sorry to be gone—
But I am due in town:
I thank you much for what you've done,
And—here is half-a-crown!”
But I am due in town:
I thank you much for what you've done,
And—here is half-a-crown!”
She started; wherefore did she start?
He only meant to please;
But something in her fluttering heart,
Just now, was ill at ease.
He only meant to please;
But something in her fluttering heart,
Just now, was ill at ease.
She started, but she kept her place:
The sight of that half-crown
Brought pleasure to her pretty face,
Brought smiles that love might own.
The sight of that half-crown
Brought pleasure to her pretty face,
Brought smiles that love might own.
She took it, with extended hand;
But ah, he must not see
On her broad palm the blackening brand
Of household drudgery!
But ah, he must not see
On her broad palm the blackening brand
Of household drudgery!
89
She took it—but she hid from view
What he might take so ill:
Coarse was her apron, but she knew
Her hand was coarser still.
What he might take so ill:
Coarse was her apron, but she knew
Her hand was coarser still.
She took it, with a grateful smile;
“Oh, thank you, sir!” she said,
And curtsey'd reverently the while—
This simple servant-maid!
“Oh, thank you, sir!” she said,
And curtsey'd reverently the while—
This simple servant-maid!
He too, he seem'd to understand
The blush upon her face,
The apron that conceal'd her hand,
And spared her that disgrace;
The blush upon her face,
The apron that conceal'd her hand,
And spared her that disgrace;
He seem'd within himself to judge
What sympathy were due
To one who was a kitchen drudge
Yet a meek woman too.
What sympathy were due
To one who was a kitchen drudge
Yet a meek woman too.
Silent, he pass'd into the hall:
And silent following, she
Array'd him in his coat and shawl
With apt humility.
And silent following, she
Array'd him in his coat and shawl
With apt humility.
Then, as they parted at the door,
He turned to say good-bye:
“Mary,” he said, “if nevermore
We meet here, you and I,
He turned to say good-bye:
“Mary,” he said, “if nevermore
We meet here, you and I,
90
“Remember that I wish you well,
For you are kind and true;
And I shall never ring my bell
Without a thought of you.
For you are kind and true;
And I shall never ring my bell
Without a thought of you.
“Shake hands!” with wonder and delight
She let him take her hand;
For now, she had forgotten quite
The blackness and the brand.
She let him take her hand;
For now, she had forgotten quite
The blackness and the brand.
He grasp'd it warmly in his own;
Then smiled a fresh adieu,
And left her standing there alone
As other servants do,
Then smiled a fresh adieu,
And left her standing there alone
As other servants do,
Mute and indifferent and calm:
Yet, with a strange surprise
He saw that what had veil'd her palm
Now help'd to veil her eyes.
Yet, with a strange surprise
He saw that what had veil'd her palm
Now help'd to veil her eyes.
“She is not crying? Yes, by Jove!
She sheds a casual tear,
Kind creature, even for those who move
In such a different sphere.
She sheds a casual tear,
Kind creature, even for those who move
In such a different sphere.
“Why, had I been but timely bold,
I might have snatch'd a kiss!
But no—I am too grave and cold
For that most vulgar bliss:
I might have snatch'd a kiss!
But no—I am too grave and cold
For that most vulgar bliss:
91
“The kisses of a servant-maid,
Base, ignorant, unknown—
Mere venal fondness, amply paid,
Perchance, with half-a-crown.
Base, ignorant, unknown—
Mere venal fondness, amply paid,
Perchance, with half-a-crown.
“Yet, this poor girl has sympathies
To win one's warm regard;
And she has lovely lips and eyes:
But then, her hands are hard.
To win one's warm regard;
And she has lovely lips and eyes:
But then, her hands are hard.
“Some workman, blest above his need,
Will choose her for a wife;
And in his cottage she will lead
Her own appointed life;
Will choose her for a wife;
And in his cottage she will lead
Her own appointed life;
“While, as for me”—such thoughts as these,
Born of an idle brain,
Amused his hours of vacant ease
Within the flying train.
Born of an idle brain,
Amused his hours of vacant ease
Within the flying train.
And she? She had no time to cry;
She took her pail and broom,
And set to work right lustily
To clean his empty room.
She took her pail and broom,
And set to work right lustily
To clean his empty room.
But as she clean'd, her artless mind
Did all his charms review;
She thought how nice he was, and kind,
And how good-looking too.
Did all his charms review;
She thought how nice he was, and kind,
And how good-looking too.
92
“I know'd it by his talk and ways
An' so you always can,
By all they does an' all they says—
As he's a gentleman.
An' so you always can,
By all they does an' all they says—
As he's a gentleman.
“Aye, that he is, from head to heel!
So different, and so fine:
An' eh, how soft his hand did feel,
When he took hold o' mine!
So different, and so fine:
An' eh, how soft his hand did feel,
When he took hold o' mine!
“If I'd a been a lady, now,
An' fit to be his wife,
I could ha' liked him well, I know,
An' loved him all my life;
An' fit to be his wife,
I could ha' liked him well, I know,
An' loved him all my life;
“Or if he'd stoop'd to think o' me,
An' took me for his dear,
My, what a blessing, just to be
His sweetheart, onywheer!
An' took me for his dear,
My, what a blessing, just to be
His sweetheart, onywheer!
“I wouldna wanted to be rose;
I'd serve him, heart and limb,
Like I did here; and goodness knows
How hard I've work'd for him.
I'd serve him, heart and limb,
Like I did here; and goodness knows
How hard I've work'd for him.
“It seem'd—but why, I canna tell—
It seem'd as nice again
To wait on him an' mind his bell
As on the other men:
It seem'd as nice again
To wait on him an' mind his bell
As on the other men:
93
“An' when I heerd the things he said,
An' seed his natty ways,
I used to get 'em in my head,
An' think of 'em for days.
An' seed his natty ways,
I used to get 'em in my head,
An' think of 'em for days.
“It's not the money as he give—
Them others pays me too:
But I did always look alive
When his work was to do.
Them others pays me too:
But I did always look alive
When his work was to do.
“An' yet, he never took no kiss,
Like some does, at the end:
I'm sure I dunno what it is
As makes him such a friend!
Like some does, at the end:
I'm sure I dunno what it is
As makes him such a friend!
“Aye, an' them curous words he spoke
Afore he took my hand—
I wonder if they was a joke
I couldna understand?
Afore he took my hand—
I wonder if they was a joke
I couldna understand?
“‘A perfect character,’ says he:
Well, my charackter's good;
An' missis would speak up for me,
I'm certain sure she would!
Well, my charackter's good;
An' missis would speak up for me,
I'm certain sure she would!
“But what! To think o' one like him
A-sweetheartin' wi' me,
As never could be proud or prim,
Nor aught but what I be!
A-sweetheartin' wi' me,
As never could be proud or prim,
Nor aught but what I be!
94
“No, I'm a fool to fret; he's gone—
He'll not come back no more;
So I mun work and bide alone,
Same as I did afore.”
He'll not come back no more;
So I mun work and bide alone,
Same as I did afore.”
She scrubb'd the harder, fronting Fate
With such brave words as these:
She scrubb'd the floor, she clean'd the grate,
Upon her hands and knees:
With such brave words as these:
She scrubb'd the floor, she clean'd the grate,
Upon her hands and knees:
She would have clean'd the chimney too;
But ere that art she tried,
“Mary!” exclaimed a voice she knew,
And “Yes, ma'am!” she replied.
But ere that art she tried,
“Mary!” exclaimed a voice she knew,
And “Yes, ma'am!” she replied.
“Yes, ma'am!” she started to her feet,
And down the stairs she ran—
Alas, it only was to meet
Another gentleman:
And down the stairs she ran—
Alas, it only was to meet
Another gentleman:
A stranger, whom she had to show—
So sudden was her doom—
All that a servant-maid should know
About that empty room.
So sudden was her doom—
All that a servant-maid should know
About that empty room.
95
L'Envoy.
Two years: and Mary's favourite guest
Had won a wealthy wife,
Who left him for another's breast,
And marr'd his home for life:
Had won a wealthy wife,
Who left him for another's breast,
And marr'd his home for life:
While Mary, reft of half her wits,
Could tell in fear and shame
How hard a drunken husband hits,
When Woman is his game.
Could tell in fear and shame
How hard a drunken husband hits,
When Woman is his game.
96
Sally.
Oh Sally, has thou done the grates,
An' clean'd the kitchen floor,
An' said good-bye to all thy mates
Thou winna see no more?
An' clean'd the kitchen floor,
An' said good-bye to all thy mates
Thou winna see no more?
An' has thou corded up thy box,
Wi' all thy things inside—
Thy Sunday shawl an' Sunday frocks
As was thy mother's pride?
Wi' all thy things inside—
Thy Sunday shawl an' Sunday frocks
As was thy mother's pride?
An' has thou pack'd them fairings up
The missis left for thee—
The looking-glass, the chiney cup,
An' two good pounds o' tea?
The missis left for thee—
The looking-glass, the chiney cup,
An' two good pounds o' tea?
Why then, my wench, we're fit to start—
For they ha' paid thy wage;
So off we go wi' lightsome heart
To catch the early stage!
For they ha' paid thy wage;
So off we go wi' lightsome heart
To catch the early stage!
Thy box, I'll lug it through the town;
An' if we rest a bit,
Among the folks I'll set it down,
An' thou shall sit on it.
An' if we rest a bit,
Among the folks I'll set it down,
An' thou shall sit on it.
97
I shall be proud to have thee seen
An' reckon'd for my own—
Aye, proud as if thou was a Queen
A-sitting on her throne.
An' reckon'd for my own—
Aye, proud as if thou was a Queen
A-sitting on her throne.
I lay they hanna seen for weeks
A country maid like mine,
Wi' such a colour in her cheeks,
An' such a arm as thine!
A country maid like mine,
Wi' such a colour in her cheeks,
An' such a arm as thine!
An' when the waggon comes in sight,
An' we ha' took our place,
I lay theer's nothing half so bright
Inside it, as thy face.
An' we ha' took our place,
I lay theer's nothing half so bright
Inside it, as thy face.
Aye, lass! For now thy face is clean,
It's just as nice again:
I wonder what our Poll do mean
Wi' calling of thee plain.
It's just as nice again:
I wonder what our Poll do mean
Wi' calling of thee plain.
Plain? Why, thy eyes is soft an' clear
Like sunshine out at sea;
An' as for them two lips, my dear,
I know how sweet they be!
Like sunshine out at sea;
An' as for them two lips, my dear,
I know how sweet they be!
O Sally, I do love thee well;
But somehow, in my mind
I canna think o' words to tell
How good thou is an' kind:
But somehow, in my mind
I canna think o' words to tell
How good thou is an' kind:
98
I only know I'm precious glad
I've got thee now for life:
For why, I never could go bad,
Wi' Sally for my wife!
I've got thee now for life:
For why, I never could go bad,
Wi' Sally for my wife!
99
Her New Place.
Yes, I ha' gotten that place;
For I took my character,
An' the missis liked it an' liked my face,
An' I liked the looks o' her.
For I took my character,
An' the missis liked it an' liked my face,
An' I liked the looks o' her.
Nesh little body an' neat—
Nobbut half the size o' me;
An' the littlest hands and the littlest feet
As ever I did see.
Nobbut half the size o' me;
An' the littlest hands and the littlest feet
As ever I did see.
Lor! When her seed my arm
(For my short-sleeved frock was on)
Her said, surely I was used to a farm,
To ha' gotten sich arms as yon!
(For my short-sleeved frock was on)
Her said, surely I was used to a farm,
To ha' gotten sich arms as yon!
Used to a farm? thinks I,
Aye, an' used to field-work too!
But to tell that tale to a lady—why
I know'd it wouldna do.
Aye, an' used to field-work too!
But to tell that tale to a lady—why
I know'd it wouldna do.
So I said I was country bred,
An' hadna been long in a town;
An' that was why my arms was red,
An' my hands was big an' brown.
An' hadna been long in a town;
An' that was why my arms was red,
An' my hands was big an' brown.
100
Then her look'd me over, her did,
Fro' my bonnet down to my toes;
Her look'd as glum as a coffin lid,
Through the glasses 'at stuck on her nose.
Fro' my bonnet down to my toes;
Her look'd as glum as a coffin lid,
Through the glasses 'at stuck on her nose.
Her axed me, could I cook?
An' could I fettle an' clean?
But her words was as hard as a printed book
For to reckon up what they mean.
An' could I fettle an' clean?
But her words was as hard as a printed book
For to reckon up what they mean.
Still, I reckon'd 'em up at last,
For I studied afore I spoke:
You munna get on wi' yer talk too fast,
When you're in wi' the gentle-folk.
For I studied afore I spoke:
You munna get on wi' yer talk too fast,
When you're in wi' the gentle-folk.
Bless you, it's on'y their way
As they learn 'em when they're young:
They've allas gotten a summat to say
On the very tip o' their tongue.
As they learn 'em when they're young:
They've allas gotten a summat to say
On the very tip o' their tongue.
Aye—but it's bad to make out;
It inna plump nor plain;
You're tied te think what it's all about,
Afore you answer again:
It inna plump nor plain;
You're tied te think what it's all about,
Afore you answer again:
You canna tell what they're at,
Nor weer they're a-drivin' to;
For you niver can get 'em to say what's what
Right out, like a servant do.
Nor weer they're a-drivin' to;
For you niver can get 'em to say what's what
Right out, like a servant do.
101
Eh, but what does it matter to me
As they talk so terrible high?
They reckons to be what they wants to be—
An' a good job too, says I!
As they talk so terrible high?
They reckons to be what they wants to be—
An' a good job too, says I!
For when wonst I've took to a place
An' sattled inside o' the door,
My missis may talk herself black i' the face,
But her winna bash me no moor.
An' sattled inside o' the door,
My missis may talk herself black i' the face,
But her winna bash me no moor.
No, I sticks to my work downstairs,
What I wants no tellin' to do;
An' the upstairs folk, they mun stick to theirs—
An' that's a good job too.
What I wants no tellin' to do;
An' the upstairs folk, they mun stick to theirs—
An' that's a good job too.
An' this here missis I've got,
Her's a right un, I'll be bound:
Her's gi'en me wages a goodish lot,
An' sugar an' tea all found;
Her's a right un, I'll be bound:
Her's gi'en me wages a goodish lot,
An' sugar an' tea all found;
An' what if her did look glum,
Or make a bit of a stir?
I lay it's as easy as kiss-my-thumb,
For to have my way wi' her.
Or make a bit of a stir?
I lay it's as easy as kiss-my-thumb,
For to have my way wi' her.
So just you wait, my lad,
Till they've gotten used te my ways:
Then, I'll gie ye as good as ye've iver had
I' the best o' your coortin' days.
Till they've gotten used te my ways:
Then, I'll gie ye as good as ye've iver had
I' the best o' your coortin' days.
102
Our Ann.
Ann was a tall athletic maid;
Robust, and fitted for her trade
By sympathetic charms:
By massive neck, and shoulders broad,
And back well suited to a load,
And strong laborious arms.
Robust, and fitted for her trade
By sympathetic charms:
By massive neck, and shoulders broad,
And back well suited to a load,
And strong laborious arms.
Such arms! They were the boast and pride
And glory of the country side—
The wonder of the town;
No other maiden near or far
Had arms so large and muscular,
So round, so red, so brown.
And glory of the country side—
The wonder of the town;
No other maiden near or far
Had arms so large and muscular,
So round, so red, so brown.
From wrist to shoulder, they were bare,
Both out of doors and everywhere,
For work and not for show:
No wonder they were plump and fine—
Ripen'd by all the suns that shine,
And all the winds that blow.
Both out of doors and everywhere,
For work and not for show:
No wonder they were plump and fine—
Ripen'd by all the suns that shine,
And all the winds that blow.
Ripe too and ruddy was her face;
Full of rude health, if not of grace,
And ignorantly fair:
For she was like a grown-up child—
With large red lips that always smiled,
And smooth untutor'd hair,
Full of rude health, if not of grace,
And ignorantly fair:
103
With large red lips that always smiled,
And smooth untutor'd hair,
And sunburnt cheeks, wherein the rose
Of rustic beauty gleams and glows,
Suffusing all the brown;
And she had innocent soft eyes,
As bright, and, if not quite as wise,
As winsome as your own.
Of rustic beauty gleams and glows,
Suffusing all the brown;
And she had innocent soft eyes,
As bright, and, if not quite as wise,
As winsome as your own.
She was a daughter of the fields:
She knew all modes that Nature yields
Of effort and employ;
She loved them all, nor cared to ask
For any less familiar task
Or more congenial joy.
She knew all modes that Nature yields
Of effort and employ;
She loved them all, nor cared to ask
For any less familiar task
Or more congenial joy.
All rural seasons were her own:
Their joys, their labours, she had known
From immemorial days;
And every creature of the place
For Ann and for her honest face
Had something more than praise.
Their joys, their labours, she had known
From immemorial days;
And every creature of the place
For Ann and for her honest face
Had something more than praise.
Why then, Ah why, did she forsake
The hoe, the hayfork and the rake,
The sickle and the spade,
To go where she had never been,
And at the close and crowded inn
Become a servant maid?
The hoe, the hayfork and the rake,
The sickle and the spade,
To go where she had never been,
And at the close and crowded inn
Become a servant maid?
104
She rued it: she was not a wife,
To sacrifice her outdoor life
For children, as they come;
She was a maiden free of care,
Who loved the fields, the open air,
Far better than her home.
To sacrifice her outdoor life
For children, as they come;
She was a maiden free of care,
Who loved the fields, the open air,
Far better than her home.
And well she might: her home was poor;
The wolf was always at the door;
Her father always stern;
And when her mother died, he chose
To live in indolent repose
On what her hands could earn.
The wolf was always at the door;
Her father always stern;
And when her mother died, he chose
To live in indolent repose
On what her hands could earn.
Her sweetheart knew it; it was he
Who 'ticed her from her liberty;
And when the thing was done
He made an easy conquest then:
She might have baffled other men—
But not her master's son.
Who 'ticed her from her liberty;
And when the thing was done
He made an easy conquest then:
She might have baffled other men—
But not her master's son.
And now, bereft of half her charms,
A bastard baby in her arms,
And all her strength decay'd,
She wanders through the sinful streets;
And envies every girl she meets
Who is not yet betray'd.
A bastard baby in her arms,
And all her strength decay'd,
She wanders through the sinful streets;
And envies every girl she meets
Who is not yet betray'd.
105
A Remonstrance.
Oh black is the hand she holds out for your guinea—
And hard is its palm as the sole of her shoe:
Then why does she show it? Because, like a ninny,
You ask'd what fine work she was fittest to do.
And hard is its palm as the sole of her shoe:
Then why does she show it? Because, like a ninny,
You ask'd what fine work she was fittest to do.
So that is her answer: 'tis most comprehensive,
'Tis prompt and sufficient, 'tis candid and clear:
If the sight of her hands be so very offensive,
She'd better be left in her own little sphere.
'Tis prompt and sufficient, 'tis candid and clear:
If the sight of her hands be so very offensive,
She'd better be left in her own little sphere.
And that, my dear sir, is the maiden's intention,
As here unabash'd in your presence she stands:
This dreadful display is her own poor invention
For saving her credit by means of her hands.
As here unabash'd in your presence she stands:
This dreadful display is her own poor invention
For saving her credit by means of her hands.
She knows very well that the sight will disgust you—
And yet, though your taste is so very refined,
You must tempt her and try to make free with her, must you?
Why then, she will give you a piece of her mind!
And yet, though your taste is so very refined,
You must tempt her and try to make free with her, must you?
Why then, she will give you a piece of her mind!
Not rudely, of course; she was never neglectful
Of aught that she owes to herself and to you:
Her silent demeanour is always respectful—
These hands shall speak for her; and surely they do!
Of aught that she owes to herself and to you:
Her silent demeanour is always respectful—
These hands shall speak for her; and surely they do!
106
You had noticed her face; and no wonder it charms you,
So sweet are her looks and so sunny her eyes:
There is nothing in them that offends or alarms you,
For beauty is beauty, wherever it lies.
So sweet are her looks and so sunny her eyes:
There is nothing in them that offends or alarms you,
For beauty is beauty, wherever it lies.
Yes, you noticed her face; but you did not consider
The hands that she scrubs with, the floors that she scours:
She'll serve you in that way, but not when you bid her
To think that her life could be mated with yours.
The hands that she scrubs with, the floors that she scours:
She'll serve you in that way, but not when you bid her
To think that her life could be mated with yours.
Stuff and nonsense! She knows very well that it could not,
And this is her method of showing you why:
Would you wed her rough hand? Nay, you know that you would not—
And love without wedlock she never will try.
And this is her method of showing you why:
Would you wed her rough hand? Nay, you know that you would not—
And love without wedlock she never will try.
See cares not a fig for your fine education;
Your easy politeness is wasted on her;
She is fond of her work and content with her station;
She never forgets to address you as Sir;
Your easy politeness is wasted on her;
She is fond of her work and content with her station;
She never forgets to address you as Sir;
She curtsies, she moves deferential before you,
For you are her master and she is your maid;
You can send her away if she happens to bore you:
Ah, do not corrupt her then, do not degrade!
For you are her master and she is your maid;
You can send her away if she happens to bore you:
Ah, do not corrupt her then, do not degrade!
She is poor in the delicate joys you are rich in,
And rich in the plain ones wherein you are poor:
Her strength and her charms are the pride of the kitchen—
Then let her enjoy what she has to endure.
And rich in the plain ones wherein you are poor:
Her strength and her charms are the pride of the kitchen—
Then let her enjoy what she has to endure.
107
You could not enjoy and you would not endure them—
The life that she leads and the labour she loves:
You might soften her hands, but you never could cure them
Of being too large for your masculine gloves!
The life that she leads and the labour she loves:
You might soften her hands, but you never could cure them
Of being too large for your masculine gloves!
What matter? For her, they are better, far better,
Though ruddy they be as the roses in June,
Than little white hands, fit for writing a letter
Or painting a picture or playing a tune.
Though ruddy they be as the roses in June,
Than little white hands, fit for writing a letter
Or painting a picture or playing a tune.
And as for her manners, so apt and becoming,
So frank to her fellows, so modest to you;
They would die if you touch'd her, like light in the gloaming:
She cannot be rustic and ladylike too.
So frank to her fellows, so modest to you;
They would die if you touch'd her, like light in the gloaming:
She cannot be rustic and ladylike too.
Far happier she, with her scrubbing and scouring,
Her mop and her besom, her bucket and broom,
Than to sit ill at ease, among ladies all louring
At one who has dared such a place to assume.
Her mop and her besom, her bucket and broom,
Than to sit ill at ease, among ladies all louring
At one who has dared such a place to assume.
Far happier she (I am sure of it, Molly)
In choosing the lot that was always her own,
Than in lending an ear to your elegant folly,
And selling her love for a costlier gown.
In choosing the lot that was always her own,
Than in lending an ear to your elegant folly,
And selling her love for a costlier gown.
Aye—now let her go, and I'll tell you a secret—
You are not the man for a social disgrace!
You are dainty and nice, and I see the word weak, writ
In tremulous scribble all over your face:
You are not the man for a social disgrace!
You are dainty and nice, and I see the word weak, writ
In tremulous scribble all over your face:
108
You have not the courage to stake your salvation
And all you are worth, on an issue like this:
You are tied to the ways of your own proper station;
The bliss that you care for is gentlefolks' bliss!
And all you are worth, on an issue like this:
You are tied to the ways of your own proper station;
The bliss that you care for is gentlefolks' bliss!
Would you court the disdain of a friend or an equal
By taking this hardhanded wench to your arms?
Why, a love such as yours is at best but a weak wall,
When buttress'd by naught save a servant-maid's charms.
By taking this hardhanded wench to your arms?
Why, a love such as yours is at best but a weak wall,
When buttress'd by naught save a servant-maid's charms.
No indeed! Though I think you might still do your duty,
You do not deserve such a sweetheart as she:
You would soon be ashamed of your ignorant beauty—
And ah, what a curse such a wifehood would be!
You do not deserve such a sweetheart as she:
You would soon be ashamed of your ignorant beauty—
And ah, what a curse such a wifehood would be!
You have not the nerve to descend to her level;
You have not the power to exalt her to yours:
So between the two ranks, she must go to the devil,
And leave you remorse for the rest of your hours.
You have not the power to exalt her to yours:
So between the two ranks, she must go to the devil,
And leave you remorse for the rest of your hours.
Better far, though your love were the deepest and purest
That man ever gave to an innocent wife,
Were the love that for her is the best and the surest—
The love that is meet for a labourer's life!
That man ever gave to an innocent wife,
Were the love that for her is the best and the surest—
The love that is meet for a labourer's life!
Then let her alone—for you never could raise her,
And she does not wish it—she would not be raised;
The wealth you could give does not dazzle or daze her,
Nor has she ambition to hear herself praised:
And she does not wish it—she would not be raised;
The wealth you could give does not dazzle or daze her,
Nor has she ambition to hear herself praised:
109
She is far too robust for your puny possessing—
Too pure for contempt, and too noble for scorn:
Some swain of the village will find her a blessing,
And give her the duties for which she was born.
Too pure for contempt, and too noble for scorn:
Some swain of the village will find her a blessing,
And give her the duties for which she was born.
110
De Haut en Bas.
She sat upon the poor folks' bench
Beside the western door;
With many another working wench
As modest and as poor.
Beside the western door;
With many another working wench
As modest and as poor.
But none had such a face as hers—
So wistful and so bright:
A face wherein the spirit stirs
Of wonder, of delight.
So wistful and so bright:
A face wherein the spirit stirs
Of wonder, of delight.
She sate in quiet, and at ease,
Unnoticed, and alone;
Her bare hands folded on her knees,
Because their work was done.
Unnoticed, and alone;
Her bare hands folded on her knees,
Because their work was done.
She sate, and gazed with might and main
At the great church around,
And heard, with pleasure nigh to pain,
The organ's stately sound.
At the great church around,
And heard, with pleasure nigh to pain,
The organ's stately sound.
And when that noblest music rose
Yet louder, louder still,
And throbb'd and thunder'd towards its close—
At each impassion'd thrill
Yet louder, louder still,
And throbb'd and thunder'd towards its close—
At each impassion'd thrill
111
She felt, but could not understand,
What sights and sounds would say;
She felt, and with laborious hand
She wiped her tears away.
What sights and sounds would say;
She felt, and with laborious hand
She wiped her tears away.
For all she heard and all she saw,
The splendour and the gloom,
Fill'd her untutor'd soul with awe,
Like prophecies of doom.
The splendour and the gloom,
Fill'd her untutor'd soul with awe,
Like prophecies of doom.
But now, a vision to her sight
New joy, new wonder, gave:
The glory of a golden light
Stream'd out into the nave.
New joy, new wonder, gave:
The glory of a golden light
Stream'd out into the nave.
Within it, moved a brilliant crowd
Of priests and worshippers:
How gallantly their presence show'd—
How different from hers!
Of priests and worshippers:
How gallantly their presence show'd—
How different from hers!
For she was drest like one whose place
Is by a cottage fire:
No sign of fashionable grace
In all her plain attire.
Is by a cottage fire:
No sign of fashionable grace
In all her plain attire.
She only wore her warm grey gown,
Her shawl of green and blue;
Her close straw bonnet, simply brown,
Was neat, but far from new.
Her shawl of green and blue;
Her close straw bonnet, simply brown,
Was neat, but far from new.
112
Within its arch, a snowy cap
Half hid her soft brown hair,
And framed a face which some strange hap
Had made exceeding fair:
Half hid her soft brown hair,
And framed a face which some strange hap
Had made exceeding fair:
Too fair in feature, too refined,
Had labour not subdued
Down to the level of her kind
Its sweet beatitude.
Had labour not subdued
Down to the level of her kind
Its sweet beatitude.
Labour had roughen'd all her skin,
And warm'd its ruddy hue;
But left the unsullied soul within
Still womanly, still true.
And warm'd its ruddy hue;
But left the unsullied soul within
Still womanly, still true.
Thus then she watch'd that brilliant crowd;
And with no envious eye
Beheld the prosperous and the proud
Go negligently by.
And with no envious eye
Beheld the prosperous and the proud
Go negligently by.
She minded not their callous stare;
She sat beside the wall,
And only thought, that one was there
Who loved her best of all.
She sat beside the wall,
And only thought, that one was there
Who loved her best of all.
Him only, with her eyes she sought
In all that multitude;
And “Will he notice me?” she thought:
She hardly thought he would.
In all that multitude;
And “Will he notice me?” she thought:
She hardly thought he would.
113
True, he was always kind and free;
And often arm in arm
They walk'd like equals, he and she,
At evening, toward the farm;
And often arm in arm
They walk'd like equals, he and she,
At evening, toward the farm;
But once—so quick her memory ran—
A passing stranger said
“How odd! He is a gentleman,
And she a servant-maid!”
A passing stranger said
“How odd! He is a gentleman,
And she a servant-maid!”
Then, surely, in so grand a place,
So fair a throng, as this,
He might be shamed to see her face
And own that she was his.
So fair a throng, as this,
He might be shamed to see her face
And own that she was his.
Ah, there he was! And yet, she sigh'd;
For he was not alone;
With him, another man she spied
Of station like his own.
For he was not alone;
With him, another man she spied
Of station like his own.
How slow, how leisurely, they walk'd!
And she was close at hand;
She heard them, but of what they talk'd
She could not understand.
And she was close at hand;
She heard them, but of what they talk'd
She could not understand.
They talk'd about the Norman door,
The windows, and the tombs:
While she—she only knew the lore
Of buckets and of brooms!
The windows, and the tombs:
While she—she only knew the lore
Of buckets and of brooms!
114
At last, they saw her; he at least,
Her sweetheart, saw; and smiled,
And came to her, as to a feast
Of dainties, comes a child.
Her sweetheart, saw; and smiled,
And came to her, as to a feast
Of dainties, comes a child.
So ardent was his look, so flush'd
With pleasure—not with pain—
She started to her feet, and blush'd,
And curtsied to the twain.
With pleasure—not with pain—
She started to her feet, and blush'd,
And curtsied to the twain.
They look'd at her; the stranger's gaze
Was kindly, but severe:
Interest it show'd, but show'd amaze,
And something too of fear:
Was kindly, but severe:
Interest it show'd, but show'd amaze,
And something too of fear:
Fear, for the sorrow and the shame
That could not be defied,
If such a lover's honour'd name
Were own'd by such a bride:
That could not be defied,
If such a lover's honour'd name
Were own'd by such a bride:
Fear for the maid, in whom he saw
Such sweet simplicity,
Such tenderness, such winning awe
Of him and his degree.
Such sweet simplicity,
Such tenderness, such winning awe
Of him and his degree.
“She is a servant, then, 'tis clear;
How can she mate with him?
And yet, their love is deep and dear;
It is no passing whim.”
How can she mate with him?
And yet, their love is deep and dear;
It is no passing whim.”
115
But that his friend, so sorely tried
By warring sympathies,
By doubts, if he could vail his pride
Or she were fit to rise,
By warring sympathies,
By doubts, if he could vail his pride
Or she were fit to rise,
No longer in such toils involved,
But fix'd to choose his fate,
Spoke freely, as a man resolved
That Love should be his mate.
But fix'd to choose his fate,
Spoke freely, as a man resolved
That Love should be his mate.
Yet as a master to a maid
He only spoke to her:
“Well, Ann, I'm glad you're here,” he said;
And she said, “Thank you, sir.”
He only spoke to her:
“Well, Ann, I'm glad you're here,” he said;
And she said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Ann, when I knew you first of all,
And found you good and fair—
When you were servant at the Hall,
And I was staying there—
And found you good and fair—
When you were servant at the Hall,
And I was staying there—
“I told you, that I had a friend
Who would be true to me,
And see us safely to the end:
Well, dearest, this is he.”
Who would be true to me,
And see us safely to the end:
Well, dearest, this is he.”
Then Ann, intent on all he said,
With artless confidence
Look'd up, and to the stranger made
Her rustic reverence.
With artless confidence
Look'd up, and to the stranger made
Her rustic reverence.
116
“This,” said her sweetheart, “is my love:
My first, my only one;
This is the maid I told you of,
Whom I have woo'd and won:
My first, my only one;
This is the maid I told you of,
Whom I have woo'd and won:
“This is the happiness to be,
The partner of my life;
And you, my oldest friend, are he
Shall make us man and wife.
The partner of my life;
And you, my oldest friend, are he
Shall make us man and wife.
“See!” and he took her harden'd hand—
“This hand, so rough and brown,
To me is fairest in the land;
Because it is my own.
“This hand, so rough and brown,
To me is fairest in the land;
Because it is my own.
“And here is an unwonted thing,
I give it, for a sign:
To-morrow, Ann, this golden ring
Shall make thee wholly mine:
I give it, for a sign:
To-morrow, Ann, this golden ring
Shall make thee wholly mine:
“Mine, though thou wert condemn'd to live
By nothing else adorn'd:
With only thy poor self to give,
No wonder thou art scorn'd!
By nothing else adorn'd:
With only thy poor self to give,
No wonder thou art scorn'd!
“Scorn'd by the wealthy, the refined—
By all who cannot trace
The outlines of a noble mind
Within a peasant's face;
By all who cannot trace
The outlines of a noble mind
Within a peasant's face;
117
“But not by me! I know full well
The thoughts that in thee move;
And no one but myself can tell
What thou hast done for love.
The thoughts that in thee move;
And no one but myself can tell
What thou hast done for love.
“Go home, then; there thy mother waits,
I know she waits, for thee;
And here to-morrow at the gates
Be with us, thou and she.
I know she waits, for thee;
And here to-morrow at the gates
Be with us, thou and she.
“Come as thou art, in this plain dress—
Unwreathed, unveil'd, ungloved:
Thyself is all thy loveliness,
And all I ever loved.
Unwreathed, unveil'd, ungloved:
Thyself is all thy loveliness,
And all I ever loved.
“Thou art sufficient, as thou art,
To stand before the shrine,
And take my honour and my heart
And pay me back with thine.
To stand before the shrine,
And take my honour and my heart
And pay me back with thine.
“A homely wedding shall be ours;
A homely honeymoon:
No bridal pomp, no costly flowers,
No nymphs in satin shoon:
A homely honeymoon:
No bridal pomp, no costly flowers,
No nymphs in satin shoon:
“I would not mock thy comely face
With trivial toys like these!
Thou in thine own accustom'd place
Shalt still abide, at ease.
With trivial toys like these!
Thou in thine own accustom'd place
Shalt still abide, at ease.
118
“Aye, be a servant, if thou wilt,
Or be a lady, dear!
Thou hast the gold, though not the gilt,
That glows in either sphere.
Or be a lady, dear!
Thou hast the gold, though not the gilt,
That glows in either sphere.
“Go then; and give me only this,
Until thou art my wife:
This kiss, that to thy master is
The sacrament of life.”
Until thou art my wife:
This kiss, that to thy master is
The sacrament of life.”
L'Envoy.
And did he marry her? Oh yes!
And did it answer? Well—
Those only, who have heart to bless
A working wench, can tell.
And did it answer? Well—
Those only, who have heart to bless
A working wench, can tell.
For she is still a working wench,
And sits with hands still bare,
O' Sundays, on the poor folk's bench:
But he is with her there.
And sits with hands still bare,
O' Sundays, on the poor folk's bench:
But he is with her there.
119
Happy Ned.
My name was Elizabeth Taylor;
But, bless you, I've long been a man.
I served in the fleet as a sailor
When the war o' Secession began;
But, bless you, I've long been a man.
I served in the fleet as a sailor
When the war o' Secession began;
I fought for the North like a good un,
Though I wasn't a Yankee mysel';
And why it all ended so sudden
I'm dash'd if I ever could tell!
Though I wasn't a Yankee mysel';
And why it all ended so sudden
I'm dash'd if I ever could tell!
But I was a gallant young party,
Broadshoulder'd and lusty and strong:
Not one o' my mates was as hearty
At a pipe and a glass and a song.
Broadshoulder'd and lusty and strong:
Not one o' my mates was as hearty
At a pipe and a glass and a song.
Not one, if I says it, was bolder
When a job o' warm work was to do;
And at drill I stood shoulder to shoulder
Wi' the stoutest and best o' the crew.
When a job o' warm work was to do;
And at drill I stood shoulder to shoulder
Wi' the stoutest and best o' the crew.
Eh! I hated the work o' the women—
A-wastin' the best o' their days
In nursin' an' sewin' and trimmin'—
Such finikin fidfaddle ways!
A-wastin' the best o' their days
In nursin' an' sewin' and trimmin'—
Such finikin fidfaddle ways!
120
No, I never was much like a woman,
Except for a good-looking face;
And that's right enough, for there's no man
As reckons good looks a disgrace.
Except for a good-looking face;
And that's right enough, for there's no man
As reckons good looks a disgrace.
So the best of it was, if they'd caught me,
Them rebels, that time o' the war,
There's never a man would ha' thought me
Aught else but a jolly young tar.
Them rebels, that time o' the war,
There's never a man would ha' thought me
Aught else but a jolly young tar.
Howsomever, I miss'd my promotion;
I was only a common A.B.
When peace settled down on the ocean,
And fighting was over for me.
I was only a common A.B.
When peace settled down on the ocean,
And fighting was over for me.
Still, I'd saved a small few o' the shiners;
And I made for the land o' my birth
As a seaman in one o' them liners
As knows what a seaman is worth.
And I made for the land o' my birth
As a seaman in one o' them liners
As knows what a seaman is worth.
They ax'd me to stop, but I wouldn't;
When once I was back o'er the main,
I couldn't abide, no I couldn't,
But I must see the old folks again.
When once I was back o'er the main,
I couldn't abide, no I couldn't,
But I must see the old folks again.
So I tramp'd right away into Cheshire
Wi' my savings rigg'd up i' my belt;
And, my word, but that tramp was a pleasure—
So hearty and handy I felt!
Wi' my savings rigg'd up i' my belt;
And, my word, but that tramp was a pleasure—
So hearty and handy I felt!
121
I come to my father's old cottage,
And there was my mother a-sot
By the hearth, wi' a sup of good pottage
A-standin' beside her, all hot.
And there was my mother a-sot
By the hearth, wi' a sup of good pottage
A-standin' beside her, all hot.
“Will ye share, ma'am,” I says, “wi' a stranger,
A sailor lad, fresh fro' the wars,
As has seen a good handful o' danger
Among yon American tars?”
A sailor lad, fresh fro' the wars,
As has seen a good handful o' danger
Among yon American tars?”
She put on her glasses, did mother,
An' look'd at my face an' my limbs;
And for sure I'm a deal like my brother,
Though I haven't a beard like our Jim's:
An' look'd at my face an' my limbs;
And for sure I'm a deal like my brother,
Though I haven't a beard like our Jim's:
Then says mother, “If thou had a sister
I could a'most a swore it was Liz!”
And wi' that, I went up an' I kiss'd her,
“Well, mother,” I says, “and it is!”
I could a'most a swore it was Liz!”
And wi' that, I went up an' I kiss'd her,
“Well, mother,” I says, “and it is!”
Eh! she laugh'd an' she cried an' she fretted,
To see me turn'd into a man;
An' I did feel ashamed to be petted
As if I was a gell like poor Nan.
To see me turn'd into a man;
An' I did feel ashamed to be petted
As if I was a gell like poor Nan.
“Nay, mother,” I says, “thou mun drop it,
Or else thou'll be t'death o' poor me!
For I isn't a child nor a poppet,
But a regular season'd A.B.
Or else thou'll be t'death o' poor me!
For I isn't a child nor a poppet,
But a regular season'd A.B.
122
“But however,” I says, “an' how's father?
How's Jim, an' our Nancy, an' all?
An' tell me first off, for I'd rather,
Is there any good news o' Jack Hall?”
How's Jim, an' our Nancy, an' all?
An' tell me first off, for I'd rather,
Is there any good news o' Jack Hall?”
“Why,” says mother, “there's news, but it's baddish;
Jack's never a sweetheart for thee;
He's as poor an' as lean as a radish,
An' he's off wi' that flighty Nan Lee!”
Jack's never a sweetheart for thee;
He's as poor an' as lean as a radish,
An' he's off wi' that flighty Nan Lee!”
Well, that give me a few little twitches—
Same kind as I had long afore;
An' thinks I, then I'll stick to my breeches,
An' never ha' sweetheart no more.
Same kind as I had long afore;
An' thinks I, then I'll stick to my breeches,
An' never ha' sweetheart no more.
For me an' Jack Hall was like brothers—
I mean we was sweethearts an' pals,
Till I found as he'd gotten three others—
One Polly, an' two little Sals!
I mean we was sweethearts an' pals,
Till I found as he'd gotten three others—
One Polly, an' two little Sals!
An' that's why I went for a sailor,
An' that's why I sail'd right away;
As he never should think Lizzie Taylor
Was a fool an' a fondhead like they.
An' that's why I sail'd right away;
As he never should think Lizzie Taylor
Was a fool an' a fondhead like they.
Yet still, if he'd come to his senses,
I'd ha' took to him easy again;
I'd ha' paid for our wedding expenses—
For I was a young un, an' fain.
I'd ha' took to him easy again;
I'd ha' paid for our wedding expenses—
For I was a young un, an' fain.
123
But no—when I heerd o' such doin's,
I settled to stick to my plan;
To ha' done wi' all weddin's an' wooin's,
An' fend for mysel' like a man.
I settled to stick to my plan;
To ha' done wi' all weddin's an' wooin's,
An' fend for mysel' like a man.
Poor mother did worrit me sadly,
An' father was at me as well;
They all on 'em wanted me badly
For to dress mysel' up like a gell.
An' father was at me as well;
They all on 'em wanted me badly
For to dress mysel' up like a gell.
Says mother, “Thou looks like a actor—
An', lord, how the neighbours 'll stare!
Do think o' thy honest charackter,
An' think o' thy bonny brown hair!”
An', lord, how the neighbours 'll stare!
Do think o' thy honest charackter,
An' think o' thy bonny brown hair!”
“Why, mother,” I says, “my charackter
'S honest as ever it were;
An' I should look a pretty play-actor
If I'd gotten a woman's long hair.
'S honest as ever it were;
An' I should look a pretty play-actor
If I'd gotten a woman's long hair.
“What, me in a frock o' pink cotton,
What, me in a bonnet and shawl?
I'd as lief lie in dock till I'm rotten,
Or sink to the bottom—that's all!
What, me in a bonnet and shawl?
I'd as lief lie in dock till I'm rotten,
Or sink to the bottom—that's all!
“But one thing I'll do for to please ye;
I'll stop, if there's work to be had:
An' I won't neither worry nor tease ye,
If ye'll nobbut just call me ‘my lad.’”
I'll stop, if there's work to be had:
An' I won't neither worry nor tease ye,
If ye'll nobbut just call me ‘my lad.’”
124
Well, they had to give in, willy-nilly,
Though they call'd it a sin an' a shame;
An' some folks made out I was silly,
An' some said I wasn't to blame;
Though they call'd it a sin an' a shame;
An' some folks made out I was silly,
An' some said I wasn't to blame;
An' some, when I went to the Dragon,
Was saucy as saucy could be:
They thought they'd ha' summat to brag on,
If they lick'd a stout feller like me.
Was saucy as saucy could be:
They thought they'd ha' summat to brag on,
If they lick'd a stout feller like me.
Aye, some on 'em look'd to ha' do'd it—
They call'd me a seagull o' shore!
But I show'd 'em my arm, an' they rued it,
An' they never got saucy no more.
They call'd me a seagull o' shore!
But I show'd 'em my arm, an' they rued it,
An' they never got saucy no more.
But once (it's a anecdote, this is)
Right under the Rectory wall
I met a young chap wi' his missis,
An' who should it be but Jack Hall!
Right under the Rectory wall
I met a young chap wi' his missis,
An' who should it be but Jack Hall!
“Hollo!” I says, “mate, I'm a sailor,
An' you've got a smart little wife:
Do you know one Elizabeth Taylor,
As you promised to stand by for life?
An' you've got a smart little wife:
Do you know one Elizabeth Taylor,
As you promised to stand by for life?
“Then, why did ye go for to leave her?
An' why did ye marry Nan Lee?
You're nowt but a lying deceiver,
An' so says her brother—that's me!”
An' why did ye marry Nan Lee?
You're nowt but a lying deceiver,
An' so says her brother—that's me!”
125
Well, afore he'd got time for to answer,
I'd planted my left in his gob;
An' I cut him adrift from his Nan, sir,
Wi' a straight un, right on to his nob.
I'd planted my left in his gob;
An' I cut him adrift from his Nan, sir,
Wi' a straight un, right on to his nob.
It's true, he come up for another—
But he got it again with a whiz;
For I felt as I was my own brother,
A-takin' the part o' poor Liz.
But he got it again with a whiz;
For I felt as I was my own brother,
A-takin' the part o' poor Liz.
An' the thing as most tickled my fancy,
An' set me to give it him hot,
Was to see how that smart little Nancy
Did scream at the licking he got.
An' set me to give it him hot,
Was to see how that smart little Nancy
Did scream at the licking he got.
For I gi'ed him a pretty good thrashing;
An' didn't they laugh at him well,
When they heerd as he'd got such a bashing
Off Elizabeth Taylor hersel'!
An' didn't they laugh at him well,
When they heerd as he'd got such a bashing
Off Elizabeth Taylor hersel'!
So that was the top o' my glory;
For every one know'd what I'd done,
And when they all heerd o' the story,
They settled to leave me alone.
For every one know'd what I'd done,
And when they all heerd o' the story,
They settled to leave me alone.
I got a good place as a carter;
An' maybe I might ha' done well,
But I seed what young master was arter,
Though I wasn't that mean as to tell.
An' maybe I might ha' done well,
But I seed what young master was arter,
Though I wasn't that mean as to tell.
126
He catch'd me one day in the stable,
A-fettlin' my two bonny teams;
An' says he, “Lad, thou's willin' an' able—
But thou's not such a man as thou seems!”
A-fettlin' my two bonny teams;
An' says he, “Lad, thou's willin' an' able—
But thou's not such a man as thou seems!”
Says I, “I's as much of a man, sir,
As ever a carter need be;
An' I think it's your likeliest plan, sir,
Not to ax for no change out o' me;
As ever a carter need be;
An' I think it's your likeliest plan, sir,
Not to ax for no change out o' me;
“For why, I'm a bit of a bruiser;
An' if there was ever a call,
I should maybe be even wi' you, sir,
The same as I was wi' Jack Hall!”
An' if there was ever a call,
I should maybe be even wi' you, sir,
The same as I was wi' Jack Hall!”
Then I faced him, my hand i' my pocket,
An' whistled a bit of a stave;
An' that sent him off like a rocket—
The lubberly cowardly knave!
An' whistled a bit of a stave;
An' that sent him off like a rocket—
The lubberly cowardly knave!
But, thinks I, he's in one of his rages;
I'll awand him, he'll get me the sack!
So I did up my kit an' my wages,
An' went—an' I never come back.
I'll awand him, he'll get me the sack!
So I did up my kit an' my wages,
An' went—an' I never come back.
I'd a stout pair o' corduroy breeches,
An' my jacket hung up by the stall;
An' a waistcoat—red plush wi' blue stitches—
An' a tidy smock frock over all:
An' my jacket hung up by the stall;
An' a waistcoat—red plush wi' blue stitches—
An' a tidy smock frock over all:
127
An' I took 'em, an' went on the sudden
To where they was making the line;
An' they give me a job, an' a good un,
Just right for a sperrit like mine.
To where they was making the line;
An' they give me a job, an' a good un,
Just right for a sperrit like mine.
For they took me to work as a navvy;
An' that's an uncommon nice trade
For them as is strong, an' can savvy
To handle the barrow and spade.
An' that's an uncommon nice trade
For them as is strong, an' can savvy
To handle the barrow and spade.
I liked it; it's hard an' it's clarty,
But then it's so healthy and free!
An' my mates, they was rough uns but hearty,
An' they none on 'em meddled wi' me.
But then it's so healthy and free!
An' my mates, they was rough uns but hearty,
An' they none on 'em meddled wi' me.
They thought me a decent young feller;
An' the woman as brought us wer teas,
My patience, what tales I did tell her
O' the life I had led on the seas!
An' the woman as brought us wer teas,
My patience, what tales I did tell her
O' the life I had led on the seas!
So I was well liked an' respected—
An' that's what a sailor enjoys;
For I hate to be glum an' dejected,
An' I do love a bit of a noise.
An' that's what a sailor enjoys;
For I hate to be glum an' dejected,
An' I do love a bit of a noise.
They took to me 'cause I was jolly,
An' cause I'd a-been in the wars;
An' they said—aye, an' so did old Molly—
As I was the prince o' Jack tars.
An' cause I'd a-been in the wars;
An' they said—aye, an' so did old Molly—
As I was the prince o' Jack tars.
128
An' that's how I come by my name then,
A name as is pretty well known;
I reckon I'm not much to blame then,
If I've took it instead o' my own.
A name as is pretty well known;
I reckon I'm not much to blame then,
If I've took it instead o' my own.
Happy Ned was the name as they give me—
I like it—it's honest an' plain;
I like it, and nothing 'ull drive me
To Elizabeth Taylor again!
I like it—it's honest an' plain;
I like it, and nothing 'ull drive me
To Elizabeth Taylor again!
For I sticks to the plank an' the barrow—
I sticks to the pickaxe an' spade:
I can plough, I can reap, I can harrow,
But a navvy's the chief o' my trade.
I sticks to the pickaxe an' spade:
I can plough, I can reap, I can harrow,
But a navvy's the chief o' my trade.
An' if you've a sweetheart as grieves you,
An' won't do his duty at all,
But frets you an' flouts you an leaves you,
Like I'd to put up wi' Jack Hall,
An' won't do his duty at all,
But frets you an' flouts you an leaves you,
Like I'd to put up wi' Jack Hall,
Why, don't shilly shally with sorrow,
Don't whimper an' wheedle an' whine,
But mak' yoursel easy, an' borrow
A stout pair o' breeches like mine;
Don't whimper an' wheedle an' whine,
But mak' yoursel easy, an' borrow
A stout pair o' breeches like mine;
Aye, borrow a waistcoat an' jacket,
An' rig yoursel' out like a man!
If ye've nobbut got strength for to back it,
You'll find that's the very best plan.
An' rig yoursel' out like a man!
If ye've nobbut got strength for to back it,
You'll find that's the very best plan.
129
An' when you ha' gi'en him a dressin',
An' basted him well for his pains,
You'll know as your fists is a blessin'
As solid an' good as your brains;
An' basted him well for his pains,
You'll know as your fists is a blessin'
As solid an' good as your brains;
You'll know it's a deal more delightful
To stick to a labourer's life
Nor to live with a chap as is spiteful
By reason you're nobbut his wife.
To stick to a labourer's life
Nor to live with a chap as is spiteful
By reason you're nobbut his wife.
Note.—Elizabeth Taylor was born at the village of Penketh, near Warrington, in Lancashire, and died, aged fifty-six, at Warrington, and was buried at Great Sankey, near Warrington, on the 5th of September 1887. For her adventures as a sailor and farm labourer and navvy, see the Warrington newspapers of September 1887, and see also Notes and Queries of December 1887.
130
Coster Emily.
'Tis a Saturday night, and the market is gay
Wheer our Emily stands with her stall:
Theer's a deal o' bright faces out Oakenham way,
But hern is the brightest of all.
Wheer our Emily stands with her stall:
Theer's a deal o' bright faces out Oakenham way,
But hern is the brightest of all.
Her tidy hood-bonnet sits well on her head
And shelters her silky brown hair;
An' her eyes is as blue an' her cheeks is as red
As the best 'at you'll find i' the fair.
And shelters her silky brown hair;
An' her eyes is as blue an' her cheeks is as red
As the best 'at you'll find i' the fair.
Her inna too thin an' her inna too stout—
Her's a sizeable wench as her stands;
I could like to be th' apron 'at clips her about,
If it's whiter a deal till her hands.
Her's a sizeable wench as her stands;
I could like to be th' apron 'at clips her about,
If it's whiter a deal till her hands.
Her hands is as busy as busy can be,
Such a many good customers come;
And some on 'em takes it an' munches it, see,
And some on 'em carries it home.
Such a many good customers come;
And some on 'em takes it an' munches it, see,
And some on 'em carries it home.
It's good, is the fish what our Emily sells;
It's welly the best of its kind:
You can see for yourself how delicious it smells,
An' it tastes just as good, to my mind.
It's welly the best of its kind:
You can see for yourself how delicious it smells,
An' it tastes just as good, to my mind.
131
I shall goo for a penn'orth, or maybe for two,
I shall eat it a pretty good while;
For it inna so much for the fish, as I goo,
It's moor for our Emily's smile.
I shall eat it a pretty good while;
For it inna so much for the fish, as I goo,
It's moor for our Emily's smile.
Her smiles like the sunshine, all over her face,
An' I reckon it comes from inside;
For her heart is a sweet an' a sunshiny place,
Wheer a shadder med never abide.
An' I reckon it comes from inside;
For her heart is a sweet an' a sunshiny place,
Wheer a shadder med never abide.
Eh, lad, but her lips is the way to her heart!
An' I think, of a evening like this,
I could chance for to make an uncommon good start,
If I nobbut could come at a kiss.
An' I think, of a evening like this,
I could chance for to make an uncommon good start,
If I nobbut could come at a kiss.
I'll do it! I'll hide me in-under yon wall,
An' I'll wait an' I'll wait till her come:
When her's pack'd up her dishes an' baskets an' all,
Her'll be off wi' her barrer, for home.
An' I'll wait an' I'll wait till her come:
When her's pack'd up her dishes an' baskets an' all,
Her'll be off wi' her barrer, for home.
Then I'll slip into sight, wi' a civil good-night,
An' I'll offer to wheel it along:
Her'll maybe say, “No, lad, my barrer is light,
An' I are as loosty an' strong;”
An' I'll offer to wheel it along:
Her'll maybe say, “No, lad, my barrer is light,
An' I are as loosty an' strong;”
But I'll have it; I'll wheel it up Haddleby road,
An' when we're atop o' the hill,
I'll pertend as I'm blown wi' yon bit of a load,
An' I'll stop, an' I'll kiss her—I will!
An' when we're atop o' the hill,
I'll pertend as I'm blown wi' yon bit of a load,
An' I'll stop, an' I'll kiss her—I will!
132
Aye—that'll be t' first, but it winna be t' last;
Us'll come to be sweethearts, you'll see:
An' theer's two 'ull be one, afore soommer is past—
That's Emily Coster, an' me!
Us'll come to be sweethearts, you'll see:
An' theer's two 'ull be one, afore soommer is past—
That's Emily Coster, an' me!
133
Cary Juliet.
The golden evening of a cool moist dayHad come to us, where on our lofty brow
We sat and rested, gazing far away
Over the level champaign and the glow
Of cottage windows lighted by the sun,
To those green hills of Arden. Victorine,
Louise, and Marie, and our fairest one,
Sweet Angélique, were there. Yet, had you seen
That group, your fancy had not call'd them fair:
A gang of labourers seated after toil.
Such did they seem, and such indeed they were;
But I, for whom stern labour cannot spoil
A woman's beauty, so she be but pure;
Whom blacken'd faces and work-harden'd hands
Offend not, be the owners only sure
Of self-respect and all that it commands—
I thought them comely still. Her coal-black cheeks,
Her coarse and manly garb, still left intact
That gracious girlish smile of Angélique's;
And Marie's clear blue eyes could still attract,
And the soft speech of ruddy-lipp'd Louise,
And stalwart Victorine's maturer charms.
Black were they all; but all were now at ease,
With half-closed eyelids and with folded arms,
134
Shall summon to her place upon the stage
Each skilful maid, whose sinewy grasp can well
Set free the loaded waggons from the cage.
Thus then we waited at the pit's rude mouth,
Silent, or gossiping of work and wage,
Of friends and neighbours: and the wind blew south,
And still we sat to windward of the shaft,
Clear of its smoke and fume. But presently
Our blue-eyed Marie stretch'd her arms, and laugh'd
To see Louise a-yawning; “Ah,” said she,
“If we was down among the ways again,
Thou wouldna need to yawn!” “I wish I was,”
Cried plump Louise. “Aye, lasses, I am fain
To win myself a bigger stint o' brass
Nor what they give up here.” “And so am I,”
Said Victorine. “If e'er I get a chance,
Oh, won't I wear the bretelles joyfully,
As once I did, and make my crampons dance
Along the fourfoot, with a load behind
As heavy as the best!” But Angélique,
Who had not work'd below, and in her mind
Dreaded the fearful darkness and the reek
Of that great shaft, descending under ground
To depths wherein she pictured to herself
A thousand horrors, both of sight and sound,
And pranks of many a goblin, many an elf—
Fair Angélique, half-shudder'd as they spoke:
She said, “I should be fear'd to work below;
135
Wi' these here corves, and let the big wage go!
You're upright here, you dunna need to crawl,
And draw like beastes on the common road.”
The others laugh'd: “You'd easy do it all,”
Said they. “You trot along afore your load,
Wi' some one else behind; an' after that,
You just sit down, and rest an' sing a bit,
Until you're wanted.” “Aye, I got quite fat,”
Said plump Louise, “when I was in the pit;
It's warm and dry, too; and there comes no breeze,
Like this up here, nor rain to wet your things;
But in between, a wench can sit at ease
And maybe, some one by her while she sings!”
“And I remember,” quoth stout Victorine,
“One day our Gaffer brought a stranger down
To see the workings; he was rare an' clean,
And seem'd to be a Monsieur from the town.
He stared, to see us with our bretelles on,
Our breeches, and our singlets, and our caps;
‘And,’ says the Gaffer, ‘Monsieur will have done
The wisest thing, if he could lie, perhaps,
Within this charrette, and a maiden here
Shall draw him safely to the getting place.’
So Monsieur got inside it; but oh dear,
How awkwardly he managed! For the space
Was scarce enough to hold him, in my wain.
Then, Gaffer Louis told him to be sure
And guard his head, and give himself the pain
To keep it down, if he would ride secure
136
And then he call'd me up, and harness'd me.
Well—I set off, a-wondering more and more
How light my load was, and how easily
I went, wi' that strange burden at my heels.
But when I'd draw'd him fairly to the end,
And the roof rose, I back'd against my wheels,
And loosed myself, and stood upright, to lend
A hand to Monsieur, for to help him out.
Eh, what a taking he was in, poor man!
He seem'd surprised, to see me just as stout
And fresh, as when I started; he began
Saying, ‘Ma fille, tu es un bon cheval!’
And slapp'd me on the shoulder. Well, I smiled;
‘Monsieur,’ says I, ‘je suis un animal
Tout à votre service.’ Then says he, ‘My child,
A ride like this is worth a franc at least:
Take it, and let me grasp thy hand again;
For thou art nobler than the noblest beast,
In being such a woman.’ Yes! and then
He clasp'd my hand; but oh, it made me start,
To feel how soft his slender fingers was,
And how unlike my own. I scarce had heart
To thank him for his money; and alas,
The Gaffer come, and so I daredna speak.”
The damsels titter'd, at this uncouth tale
Of female prowess; all, save Angélique;
Behind her mask of coal-dust, she grew pale,
And said she never never could have dared
To do a thing like that. Why not? said they;
137
From Gaffer Louis' gang: she must obey,
And do the work he gave her; and beside,
The Monsieur weigh'd but little, as she said.
But, as the stronger maidens vainly tried
To quell the weak one, lo, another maid
Above the sharp edge of our steep pit-brow
Appear'd against the sky: on that wide marge,
Like the full moon uprisen even now
Beyond the hills, as ruddy and as large,
She rose majestic, and she rose alone.
Her mighty figure and her manlike dress
Belied her sex; but she was quickly known,
And all my clear-eyed damsels answer'd, “Yes—
'Tis Cary Juliet; and the nightshift's on,
She comes to work the nightshift with the men.”
I started up; unwilling to be gone,
Yet eager to encounter there and then
A heroine like this. Magnificent
In form and feature, and in bulk and height
A tall man's equal, oh, how eloquent
Her aspect was, of that severe delight
In conscious power, which Labour always gives
To those who love it and who still are young!
Her face was like the mirror of two lives—
A woman's and a man's: the bards have sung
Faces less fair and not more feminine;
Yet the firm lips and blue wide-open eyes
Had all a young man's daring, as on mine
138
She did not move nor falter, where she stood,
When I came near, admiring as I came
The simple grandeur of her attitude:
Her head erect, her broad and sinewy frame
Squared at the shoulders; and the full deep chest
Still panting from her climb; her massive arms,
Brown, muscular, but shapely as the best—
Engines of toil, yet worthy of her charms—
Poised in a lordly ease; on one warm hip
Her right wrist resting, while her left hand held
The tools wherewith she wrought in fellowship,
Her pickaxe, and her spade. Not uncompell'd
By her own bulk and stature and the scale
Of her large limbs, she stood with feet apart,
Colossus-like, upon the yielding shale.
Woe to the sculptor's or the limner's art
That should presume to make correctly known
A maid like this, and in her working guise!
She wore no kirtle, nor no woman's gown;
Breeches she wore, of manly make and size—
Coarse sacking breeches, sound and wholly clean:
And, from the knee, grey hosen, warm and whole,
Clipp'd her stout legs, until below were seen
Her ponderous boots, with iron on the sole
Shod like a horse's hoofs: with such a tread,
Laborious, loud, and heavy, did she move
Along the rough ways where she earn'd her bread
“Ah, how unlike the airy step of Love!”
Cries some one's folly, as he reads of this:
139
That she was worthy of Apollo's kiss—
So noble was her visage, and her hair
Phœbus' own hue, clear amber touch'd with gold.
Yea; the one token of her maidenhood,
Her only female garment, did enfold
Those sunbright tresses: 'twas a bonnet rude
Of coarse black stuff, the common country wear
Of collier girls like her. No taste refined,
No educated instinct, could make clear
Her beauty, with an emphasis design'd,
As she had made it by this homely chance:
So apt a foil her sable bonnet gave
To the fresh rose of her sweet countenance,
And to the hair, a parted golden wave,
That spann'd her brow. Yes, and her brow was white:
Her week of coaly toil was all to come;
And she meanwhile shone spotless, and as bright
As any lady who abides at home
In idleness and ease. About her neck
A scarlet kerchief hung in many a fold
O'er the full flannel, clean without a speck,
That wrapp'd her strenuous body from the cold.
With such a smock, a figure so robust
Look'd vaster still; and round her ample waist
A leathern belt encircled her, and truss'd,
(With iron buckle accurately placed,)
The smock and sacking breeches into one.
Not Aphrodite's cestus thrice renew'd
Could round the measure of that maiden zone;
140
No sign of aught unwomanly, appear'd
In her grave manner and her artless gaze:
I knew not yet, that she was one who cheer'd
A mother, with the earnings of long days,
Long nights, of labour; but I knew at once
That she was all a peasant lass should be.
He were a villain, or an arrant dunce,
Who in so grand a creature fail'd to see
The worth of Woman on a wider field
Than home and hearth can give. But now at length
I hail'd the maid, and summon'd her to yield
News of herself, and how her skill and strength
Wrought underground. “I know you then,” said I,
Using the freedom of a peasant's tongue,
“And you are Cary Juliet: certainly
You are a gallant maid, for one so young!”
She looked surprised, that I had come to know
Her humble name: perhaps I was indeed
The new Ingénieur, and had been below,
And read the list—for he no doubt could read:
But with a smile, as taking no offence
At those plain words, she answer'd (and her voice
Was soft and full and tremulous and tense
As any singer's), “Monsieur has the choice
Of many damsels, at this pit of ours;
And I am Cary Juliet of the Vale,
As Monsieur says—in all my working hours
At Monsieur's service.” “Then I will not fail
To claim your friendly service, maiden mine
141
Yet seemed to wonder that a man so fine
Compared with her, should care to touch or see
A working hand like hers. She did not know
That to his thought a working hand like hers
Deserves more honour than the jewell'd show
Of soft white fingers. Ah, it surely stirs
The blood of manhood with pathetic thrills
Of sympathy, to find a noble face
And such rude hands, together! That fulfils
The charm of contrast, when high outward grace
Is there, to balance all unseemly signs
Of toil, and show that toil is gracious too,
When Woman is the worker. Friend, your lines
Are cast in pleasant places; men like you
Would scorn to feel the hard and rugged grasp
Of Juliet's hand: if she presumed to press
Your languid palm, you would but stare and gasp,
Quintilian-like, at such a coarse caress
From such a queenly maiden of nineteen.
On the soft cushion of my sleeve, I laid
Her willing hand: 'twas wonderfully clean—
Clean as the hand of labour can be made
By effort; but dark lines indelible
Cross'd like a map the broad and callous palm,
Significant of coal. I mark'd them well,
And so did she; considerately calm,
She first survey'd her own impressive hand,
Then look'd at me, as one who understood
142
But, as for me, in meditative mood
I thought of far Verona, and the praise
Of that Italian Juliet: not more fair,
But oh how different in her life and ways,
Her mould, her nature, and her outward air,
From this laborious maiden! My fair friend
Needed no vows to the inconstant moon,
Nor ever own'd the wherewithal to spend
On gloves to touch her cheek with, nor the boon
Of female service and surveillance dear.
True, she was wakeful at the noon of night—
But not for dalliance, not for love or fear:
Alone, unhonour'd, far from all delight,
She in perpetual darkness would be found
All swink'd and blacken'd by her honest toil,
Five hundred fathom deep beneath the ground.
“Ah, what a contrast, what a hideous foil
“To gentle Shakespeare's women!”—Not at all:
I would that Shakespeare's self had but been there,
To see that contrast, and to see how small
The loss in mere refinement, and how rare
The gain in strength of body and of soul,
In my poor Juliet, measured by his own.
But she, whose thoughts were now of cleaving coal
(A thing more useful and more widely known
Than Shakespeare or Verona) when she saw
How long I held her hand and studied it,
Look'd on me with a kind of puzzled awe:
And “Monsieur sees,” she said, “that in the pit
143
For I have been a traineuse many a year;
But now, I am a sinker by the yard;
I and this other man, my comrade here,
Are in the nightshift gang.” I look'd about
And saw that other man: a creature he
Of far less lusty carriage, far less stout,
Nor yet so tall and vigorous, as she.
“Why, friend,” said I, “you scarcely are a mate
For Cary Juliet; she could knock you down,
Or crush you to a jelly with her weight!”
He growl'd—she laugh'd: the ruder sex, I own,
Are jealous of the fairer; but 'twas good
To see two labourers together thus,
And one, the maid, for all her womanhood
More manly than the man. “Inglorious,
Unfeminine distinction!” cries the crowd.
Ah well—you have not seen her: if you had,
In such a cause you would not speak so loud.
But while we thus discoursed, the good and bad
Of collier-life comparing, from behind
We heard the signal bell, and saw the cage
Shoot up in air, then settle to it's mind
Down to the brow upon the iron stage.
Juliet and I shook hands; and with her mate
She strode away in silence o'er the brow,
I following. Great was the noise, and great
Among that group of girls the bustle now,
Whom I had left so quiet: every lass
Was at her waggon, from the cage withdrawn
144
With iron wheels across that iron lawn,
Thrust by the strong arms of two sturdy maids
Right to the summit of the kecking place.
Louise helps Victorine, and Marie aids
Fair Angélique, in that exciting race,
Each well abreast of other. But meanwhile,
More calmly couraged, Cary Juliet stands
Beside the shaft; and with a lofty smile
Surveys their little labours. In her hands
She holds her can, her davy, and her tools:
And waits the Gaffer's orders to descend.
She thinks those four black maidens are but fools,
To work above ground; yet she is their friend—
As the large dog is friendly with the small.
For none of them, not even Victorine,
Strong as they are, is so robust and tall
As she is; and she knows it, as a queen
Knows that her ladies are but ladies still,
And she their sovereign. Now the time was come
To do her proper part: and with a skill
Not learnt in courts or any palace home,
She crept into the emptied cage, and sat
Among the other colliers, on her heels.
In such a place, one can but crouch and squat;
Yet in that posture Cary Juliet feels
As much herself, as regal and composed,
As if she sat upon a carbon throne
With those rude males to worship her. Enclosed
Within an iron cage, she sat alone
145
Who were not female and who were not fair:
She was but one stout labourer; but then
She was the best—the only woman there.
The Gaffer signall'd; and by swift degrees
Again the cage shot up into the air
And then sank down. Her head between her knees,
Juliet sat quiet, smiling still at me,
Behind the bars; and stretching out her hand
She waved a frank farewell, right gracefully;
Then, as the huge freight dipp'd below the land,
“Monsieur,” she cried, “adieu and au revoir!”
And sank with all her comrades, out of sight.
I, leaning forward from that coaly shore,
Look'd after her; look'd down the depth of night,
And saw not anything, but heard the drip
Of falling waters, and the clang of chains
Above the cage; the close and grinding grip
Wherewith that great machine plunges and strains
In its descent, against the iron gear
That keeps it steady in a narrow room:
Tremendous noises, but to Juliet's ear
Familiar and benign. In such vast gloom,
Amid such sounds, she willingly is borne
Down, down, to seek a hardy livelihood
In the swart seams of coal.
Again the cage shot up into the air
And then sank down. Her head between her knees,
Juliet sat quiet, smiling still at me,
Behind the bars; and stretching out her hand
She waved a frank farewell, right gracefully;
Then, as the huge freight dipp'd below the land,
“Monsieur,” she cried, “adieu and au revoir!”
And sank with all her comrades, out of sight.
I, leaning forward from that coaly shore,
Look'd after her; look'd down the depth of night,
And saw not anything, but heard the drip
Of falling waters, and the clang of chains
Above the cage; the close and grinding grip
Wherewith that great machine plunges and strains
In its descent, against the iron gear
That keeps it steady in a narrow room:
Tremendous noises, but to Juliet's ear
Familiar and benign. In such vast gloom,
Amid such sounds, she willingly is borne
Down, down, to seek a hardy livelihood
In the swart seams of coal.
To-morrow morn,
What time the sun above yon Arden wood
Arises, Cary Juliet too shall rise
Out of the depths that over her did close;
But ah, not brilliant like the eastern skies,
Not fresh and fair, as Emily uprose,
And went to Dian's temple, in the tale:
After a night of toil shall she come back—
Too weary and too sleepy now, to hail
The golden sun; and with a face as black
As is the pit she comes from, on the land
She shall step forth, and slowly slouch away
To that poor home where by her mother's hand
Refresh'd and fed, she sleeps through half the day,
And to her work comes out again at eve.
Farewell, fair Cary Juliet! if indeed
What time the sun above yon Arden wood
Arises, Cary Juliet too shall rise
146
But ah, not brilliant like the eastern skies,
Not fresh and fair, as Emily uprose,
And went to Dian's temple, in the tale:
After a night of toil shall she come back—
Too weary and too sleepy now, to hail
The golden sun; and with a face as black
As is the pit she comes from, on the land
She shall step forth, and slowly slouch away
To that poor home where by her mother's hand
Refresh'd and fed, she sleeps through half the day,
And to her work comes out again at eve.
We meet again, myself can well believe
That thou wilt be at leisure; having need
No more, to be a sinker in the pit
Nor yet a traineuse: some stout mate of thine
Strong as thyself, shall woo thee as most fit
To be his wife. To him thou shalt resign
Thy working tools; contented to abide
Within his home, a comrade rough but true,
And go through life unwearied, at his side,
With sons and daughters such as are thy due,
Majestic woman! As I go from hence,
I see the mother, in some future maid
Repeated with a charming difference:
And I too, haply, ere my own eyes fade,
May yet behold, if envious years allow,
Another lass in manly garb array'd—
Another Cary Juliet, on this brow.
147
T' Pointsman.
Eawr Lizzie's nowther jimp nor small,
Hoo's big an' stoot i' limb;
Her broother Jim stan's fahve foot nahn,
An' hoo's as big as Jim.
Hoo's big an' stoot i' limb;
Her broother Jim stan's fahve foot nahn,
An' hoo's as big as Jim.
Te see her, wiv her flannen cawt
An' foostian breeches on,
A-throotchin' corves i' winter tahm,
Yo'd think her wur a mon!
An' foostian breeches on,
A-throotchin' corves i' winter tahm,
Yo'd think her wur a mon!
For throotchin' corves at bank an' broo,
An' work wi' pick an' spaade,
An' lawdin' troocks, an' climmin' shoots,—
All them was Lizzie traade.
An' work wi' pick an' spaade,
An' lawdin' troocks, an' climmin' shoots,—
All them was Lizzie traade.
An' well hoo did it! Talk o' men,
An' lasses big an' small!
Theer's twalve on 'em weer Lizzie work'd,
An' Lizzie capp'd 'em all.
An' lasses big an' small!
Theer's twalve on 'em weer Lizzie work'd,
An' Lizzie capp'd 'em all.
Hoo did, Ah tell ye! T'oother gells
Gets nobbut wenches' paa;
Bud Lizzie addled brooman waage—
That's aaf a croon a daa!
Gets nobbut wenches' paa;
Bud Lizzie addled brooman waage—
That's aaf a croon a daa!
148
Hoo's prood on it—hoo's rare an' prood—
Hoo offens said to me,
“Ah've niver doon nowt else, mah lad,
Nor niver wants te de!”
Hoo offens said to me,
“Ah've niver doon nowt else, mah lad,
Nor niver wants te de!”
Well, well! “But if Ah hed mah limbs,
Mah lass,” Ah've allas said,
“Thah shouldna wark at broo nae mair
When thee an' me is wed!”
Mah lass,” Ah've allas said,
“Thah shouldna wark at broo nae mair
When thee an' me is wed!”
Yo seen, Ah knaw'dna wat med coom;
Ah thowt it shaame, te see
A graadely wench as Lizzie is,
Tahd tiv a chap lahk me.
Ah thowt it shaame, te see
A graadely wench as Lizzie is,
Tahd tiv a chap lahk me.
For Ah was crippled, last back-end;
Yon tahm, when me an' Liz
Was wrought tegither at the trams,
At Marsh an' Morris's.
Yon tahm, when me an' Liz
Was wrought tegither at the trams,
At Marsh an' Morris's.
Dahn coom'd a tram, beawt a break,
Upon us lahk a knife:
Liz lost a finger an' a thoomb,
An' Ah was laamed for life.
Upon us lahk a knife:
Liz lost a finger an' a thoomb,
An' Ah was laamed for life.
Bud wat! Hoo didna skrike nor swound;
For all her bleedin' hand
Hoo lugg'd ma' dahn to th' office-plaace,
For why? Ah couldna stand.
For all her bleedin' hand
Hoo lugg'd ma' dahn to th' office-plaace,
For why? Ah couldna stand.
149
An when Ah'd ligg'd i' th' hospital
Fahve weary weeks an' moor,
'Twas Liz, 'at coom'd a-seechin' ma',
And speerin' at the door.
Fahve weary weeks an' moor,
'Twas Liz, 'at coom'd a-seechin' ma',
And speerin' at the door.
Tha' let her in: tha' hadn't need
Kept aht mah feyther kin!
For hoo's mah feyther broother child—
An' saw tha' let her in.
Kept aht mah feyther kin!
For hoo's mah feyther broother child—
An' saw tha' let her in.
Hoo tell'd it 'em—hoo tell'd it all;
Hoo says, as bowld as brass,
“Ah's sweetheart tiv him, an' Ah's kin—
Ah's noan a straanger lass!”
Hoo says, as bowld as brass,
“Ah's sweetheart tiv him, an' Ah's kin—
Ah's noan a straanger lass!”
An' saw, tha' let her in, yo seen;
Bud when Ah seed her hand—
The piece 'at's left on't—happit oop
I' cloots an' bits o' band,
Bud when Ah seed her hand—
The piece 'at's left on't—happit oop
I' cloots an' bits o' band,
“Thah's coom'd te see ma', lass,” Ah says,
“Thah's allas kind an' free;
Bud wat, thah's nobbut fit for nowt
Bud lig a-bed, lahk me!”
“Thah's allas kind an' free;
Bud wat, thah's nobbut fit for nowt
Bud lig a-bed, lahk me!”
“Naa, lad,” hoo says, “Ah's reet eneeaf!
An' if mah thoomb is gone,
Ah laa Ah'll grip ma spaade agëan
Wi' ony oother mon!”
An' if mah thoomb is gone,
Ah laa Ah'll grip ma spaade agëan
Wi' ony oother mon!”
150
Spaade? Aye, an' did! an' corves an' all,
An' rowk'd 'em eawt o' t' caage!
Hoo still could de a brooman wark,
An' addle brooman waage.
An' rowk'd 'em eawt o' t' caage!
Hoo still could de a brooman wark,
An' addle brooman waage.
An' eh! wat taales hoo tell'd ma' then,
Te cheer ma oop i' th' ward,
O' Jim 'at's wed, an' Sam 'at's dëad,
An' Bill 'at's drinkin' hard!
Te cheer ma oop i' th' ward,
O' Jim 'at's wed, an' Sam 'at's dëad,
An' Bill 'at's drinkin' hard!
“Bud wat's te deah wi' thee,” Ah says,
“Mah lass? An' haw's theesen?
Hes doctors gripp'd this hand o' thine
An' set it reet agëan?”
“Mah lass? An' haw's theesen?
Hes doctors gripp'd this hand o' thine
An' set it reet agëan?”
“Doctors?” hoo says, “a bonny taale!
Ah wants nae doctor fee!
Thah's getten th' 'ospital an' cloob,
Bud waw's te paa for me?
Ah wants nae doctor fee!
Thah's getten th' 'ospital an' cloob,
Bud waw's te paa for me?
“Naa, lad, Ah fetch'd owd Tommy Jaane,
At draws wer teeth, yo known;
Hoo's rare an' good for dressin' wownds
An' settin' bits o' bawn:
At draws wer teeth, yo known;
Hoo's rare an' good for dressin' wownds
An' settin' bits o' bawn:
“Hoo sattled t' blood, an' happ'd it oop,
An' gied ma' stooff an' all;
An' sin' Ah's getten wark agëan,
Ah donna feel sae small!
An' gied ma' stooff an' all;
An' sin' Ah's getten wark agëan,
Ah donna feel sae small!
151
“Bud wahl mah t'oother hand gets well,
Ah's lahk a daatal mon;
Ah fettles th' plaace, an' knocks abaht,
An' diz wat jobs Ah con;
Ah's lahk a daatal mon;
Ah fettles th' plaace, an' knocks abaht,
An' diz wat jobs Ah con;
“Ah's pawstman, lad, an' carries th' bag—
Ah's packman wi' his pack!
Ah gans te th' office ivery morn,
Wi' letters o' me back!
Ah's packman wi' his pack!
Ah gans te th' office ivery morn,
Wi' letters o' me back!
“An,' laddie, if thah's boon te dee,
Thah needna fret for Liz;
Ah's got anoother sweetheart nah,
Te keep ina, if thah diz!”
Thah needna fret for Liz;
Ah's got anoother sweetheart nah,
Te keep ina, if thah diz!”
Ah thowt hoo meean'd it; an' Ah says,
“Ah weean't be jealous, lass;
Thah's wuth a graadelier mon till me—
'At's nowther strength nor brass!”
“Ah weean't be jealous, lass;
Thah's wuth a graadelier mon till me—
'At's nowther strength nor brass!”
Hoo kooss'd ma', weer Ah ligg'd i' th' bed,
Hoo kooss'd ma' sweet an' saft;
An' says, “For shaame, thoo dodderin' feeal!
'Oo can tha' be sae daft?
Hoo kooss'd ma' sweet an' saft;
An' says, “For shaame, thoo dodderin' feeal!
'Oo can tha' be sae daft?
“Mah t'oother sweetheart's noan a mon,
Nor niver lahk te be:
It's joost a job Ah's getten, lad,
Te keep mysel'—an' thee.
Nor niver lahk te be:
It's joost a job Ah's getten, lad,
Te keep mysel'—an' thee.
152
“For Ah was foss'd te show me 'and
Te Morrises an' them;
An' t' maister, him 'at's ovverseer,
Says, ‘Lass, thah shanna clem!
Te Morrises an' them;
An' t' maister, him 'at's ovverseer,
Says, ‘Lass, thah shanna clem!
“‘Thah fraames uncommon well,’ he says,
‘Te grip thy pick an’ spaade;
Bud wat, beawt a thoomb,’ he says,
‘Thoo's hardlins fit for t' traade.
‘Te grip thy pick an’ spaade;
Bud wat, beawt a thoomb,’ he says,
‘Thoo's hardlins fit for t' traade.
“‘Ah knaws thah's used te troocks an’ that—
Sidins an' points,’ says he;
‘An' if Ah've got a pointsman plaace,
Bah goom! Ah'll give it thee.’
Sidins an' points,’ says he;
‘An' if Ah've got a pointsman plaace,
Bah goom! Ah'll give it thee.’
“Aye, an' he hez! Owd Tommy plaace—
Top end o' Dickson Löan;
He gied it ma', for me an' thee
Te hev it for wer awn.
Top end o' Dickson Löan;
He gied it ma', for me an' thee
Te hev it for wer awn.
“For th' hahse, it's big eneaaf for two;
An', laddie, when we're wed,
Thah'lt sit an' smook i' th' chimla neuk,
An' lig tha' dahn o' th' bed.”
An', laddie, when we're wed,
Thah'lt sit an' smook i' th' chimla neuk,
An' lig tha' dahn o' th' bed.”
That's wat mah Lizzie tell'd te me
Yon tahm i' th' hospital;
An' eh, mah wod! it gied ma strength,
An' cheer'd ma' oop an' all!
Yon tahm i' th' hospital;
An' eh, mah wod! it gied ma strength,
An' cheer'd ma' oop an' all!
153
Saw nah then, we're as wick as lops;
An' cripple if Ah is,
Ther's noan a pointsman upo' th' line
'At's thowt on lahk mah Liz!
An' cripple if Ah is,
Ther's noan a pointsman upo' th' line
'At's thowt on lahk mah Liz!
154
Eawr Liz.
If Ah was lahk them graadely gells
Eawr Jemmy gans te see,
'At maks a peep-shaw o' theirsels,
He'd maybe think o' me.
Eawr Jemmy gans te see,
'At maks a peep-shaw o' theirsels,
He'd maybe think o' me.
Bud wat, thah knaws Ah's nowt o' t' soort;
Ah's nobbut wat Ah is;
An' them 'at thinks te mak ma' spoort,
Tha ca'n ma' Boompin Liz.
Ah's nobbut wat Ah is;
An' them 'at thinks te mak ma' spoort,
Tha ca'n ma' Boompin Liz.
Aye, an' it favvers ma', doos t' naam!
Ah likes it, ony waa:
For why, it's nowther sin nor shaam
Te worrk an' nut te plaa.
Ah likes it, ony waa:
For why, it's nowther sin nor shaam
Te worrk an' nut te plaa.
Ah niver reckon'd te be nesh—
Ah niver wānted teah;
Ah'd liefer leeak as stoot an' fresh
An' boompin as Ah deah.
Ah niver wānted teah;
Ah'd liefer leeak as stoot an' fresh
An' boompin as Ah deah.
An' thah's anoother; eh, mah lass,
If we was lahk yon gells,
An' seed eawr faaces iv a glass,
Wa sudna knaw wersels!
If we was lahk yon gells,
An' seed eawr faaces iv a glass,
Wa sudna knaw wersels!
155
Naw woonder! It's a rooghish traade,
An' moocky, is this here;
An' them as canna grip a spaade,
Ah laa tha'd find it queer!
An' moocky, is this here;
An' them as canna grip a spaade,
Ah laa tha'd find it queer!
Mah wod! Sich fiddlin' gells as yon,
'At ligs awhoam indoors,
Thaa'd niver coom te Pemleton,
All weathers, ower th' moors.
'At ligs awhoam indoors,
Thaa'd niver coom te Pemleton,
All weathers, ower th' moors.
Aye, marry—an' Ah minds it weel,
When t' moon was oop i' th' sky,
An' t' moonleet wasna sich a deal
Te pick yer treadins by,
When t' moon was oop i' th' sky,
An' t' moonleet wasna sich a deal
Te pick yer treadins by,
Ah mind, when we'd a job te stan',
Sae roogh yon wind did blaw;
Bud link'd tegither we mud gan
Throof three good mile o' snaw!
Sae roogh yon wind did blaw;
Bud link'd tegither we mud gan
Throof three good mile o' snaw!
Well, Ah could deah wi' Jemmy, lass,
If he could deah wi' me;
Bud as for seechin' of his brass—
Bah goom, Ah'd liefer dee!
If he could deah wi' me;
Bud as for seechin' of his brass—
Bah goom, Ah'd liefer dee!
Eh! theer'll be oother lads, naw doot,
A-speerin' efter Liz;
An' if tha' dawn't, Ah'll stick te t' shoot,
An' joost be wat Ah is.
A-speerin' efter Liz;
An' if tha' dawn't, Ah'll stick te t' shoot,
An' joost be wat Ah is.
156
Ann Lee.
Eh, Tommy! wat, wad tha be koossin'
A wench 'at's as moocky as me?
If Ah thowt abaht cooddlin' an' boossin',
Mah certie, it wadna be thee!
A wench 'at's as moocky as me?
If Ah thowt abaht cooddlin' an' boossin',
Mah certie, it wadna be thee!
Well, thah sees mah—Ah's black, an' Ah's sweatin';
Mah faace is all smoother'd i' grime:
Nobbut tooch ma, Ah'll gie tha a pettin'
'Ull last tha for t' rest o' thah time!
Mah faace is all smoother'd i' grime:
Nobbut tooch ma, Ah'll gie tha a pettin'
'Ull last tha for t' rest o' thah time!
Aye, Ah meeans wat Ah says, an' Ah'll do it;
Soon as iver thah cooms ower near,
Ah'll let tha, me lad, bud thah'll rue it—
For Ah'll mak tha as black as thy dear.
Soon as iver thah cooms ower near,
Ah'll let tha, me lad, bud thah'll rue it—
For Ah'll mak tha as black as thy dear.
Here's a pair o' black airms, 'at'll clip tha—
Aye, stoot uns, an' fit for sich sport:
For Ah'll hoog tha, an' tew tha, an' grip tha,
Wahl t' breath i' thy body roons short.
Aye, stoot uns, an' fit for sich sport:
For Ah'll hoog tha, an' tew tha, an' grip tha,
Wahl t' breath i' thy body roons short.
Thoo mun speer for a kooss, bud Ah tell tha
Thoo'll niver git nowt bud a fall:
Wat, thoo thinks this here fist canna fell tha?
Joost try it, mah beauty, that's all!
Thoo'll niver git nowt bud a fall:
Wat, thoo thinks this here fist canna fell tha?
Joost try it, mah beauty, that's all!
157
Joost try te git me for a sweetheart,
Thoo fond little waak little mon!
If thah mooth was as sweet as a tea-tart,
Ah'd ha' noan o' thah koosses—nut wonn!
Thoo fond little waak little mon!
If thah mooth was as sweet as a tea-tart,
Ah'd ha' noan o' thah koosses—nut wonn!
Can thoo 'elp ma at keckin' an' throotchin'?
Can thoo deah wi' mah pick an' mah spaade?
Nut thee! Thah's afeard on a smootchin';
Thah'd niver be fit for eawr traade.
Can thoo deah wi' mah pick an' mah spaade?
Nut thee! Thah's afeard on a smootchin';
Thah'd niver be fit for eawr traade.
Thah likes te be eeasy an' jolly,
An' niver diz nowt for thysell;
Thah's a coddle, mah lad, an' a Molly,
As white as a laadyfied gell.
An' niver diz nowt for thysell;
Thah's a coddle, mah lad, an' a Molly,
As white as a laadyfied gell.
Thah's allas agaat amoong singgers—
Ah've seed tha', as prood an' as grand!
Wi' thy waas 'at's as stiff as mah fingers,
An' as 'ard as this 'oof o' mah 'and.
Ah've seed tha', as prood an' as grand!
Wi' thy waas 'at's as stiff as mah fingers,
An' as 'ard as this 'oof o' mah 'and.
Eh, Ah should be a feeal an' a gaaby,
If Ah was te listen te thee!
Ah sud ha' te keep thee an' a baaby,
Beside ma owd moother an' me.
If Ah was te listen te thee!
Ah sud ha' te keep thee an' a baaby,
Beside ma owd moother an' me.
Gan thee waas! If thah thinks abaht coortin',
Ther's soom 'at'll ha' tha, naw doot:
Eawr Jenny's a-seechin' 'er fortin—
Ax 'er if thah koosses 'll suit!
Ther's soom 'at'll ha' tha, naw doot:
Eawr Jenny's a-seechin' 'er fortin—
Ax 'er if thah koosses 'll suit!
158
Ah laa thoo can tell weer te find 'er—
An' Ah could, weeriver hoo's gone;
For hoo'll kindle as wick as a tinder,
At sight of a graadely yoong mon.
An' Ah could, weeriver hoo's gone;
For hoo'll kindle as wick as a tinder,
At sight of a graadely yoong mon.
Hoo's a poor little wench, is eawr Jenny,
An' worrks at John Dickison mill:
Her airms is as waak an' as skinny—
Naw woonder hoo's poorly an' ill.
An' worrks at John Dickison mill:
Her airms is as waak an' as skinny—
Naw woonder hoo's poorly an' ill.
Gan thee waas tiv 'er, then! If Ah catch tha
A-speerin' agëan efter me,
Ah'll set yon owd Towzer te watch tha,
As sear as mah naam is Ann Lee!
A-speerin' agëan efter me,
Ah'll set yon owd Towzer te watch tha,
As sear as mah naam is Ann Lee!
159
Jenny o' Eawr Pit.
1840.
Wat, Sally, thah faace is all grime—
Mah wench, thoo's as clarty as me!
Ah've had moocking eneeaf i' mah time,
Bud Ah niver was blacker nor thee.
Mah wench, thoo's as clarty as me!
Ah've had moocking eneeaf i' mah time,
Bud Ah niver was blacker nor thee.
It's a doosty owd pit, is this here:
Bud Ah loove it, Ah niver wad chaange;
Ah's been wrought here a mony good year,
An' owt else 'ud be fremdish an' straange.
Bud Ah loove it, Ah niver wad chaange;
Ah's been wrought here a mony good year,
An' owt else 'ud be fremdish an' straange.
When Ah was as bonny as thoo,
An' as yoong, an' as loosty an' all,
Ah'd sweethearts enew at this broo,
As 'ud coom, when Ah reckon'd te call.
An' as yoong, an' as loosty an' all,
Ah'd sweethearts enew at this broo,
As 'ud coom, when Ah reckon'd te call.
Bud nah, they're all wedded an' gone,
An' Ah addles mah baggin mesen:
Ah says, Ah'd as lief be aloan,
As meddle wi' childer an' men.
An' Ah addles mah baggin mesen:
Ah says, Ah'd as lief be aloan,
As meddle wi' childer an' men.
Bud Ah rues it! Ah wish I was wed;
Ah's noan sich a bad un for aage:
An' Ah'd gie him best aaf o' mah bed,
For a whoam, an' a share o' his waage.
Ah's noan sich a bad un for aage:
An' Ah'd gie him best aaf o' mah bed,
For a whoam, an' a share o' his waage.
160
Hez thoo getten a sweetheart, my lass?
Will he wed tha', as black as thoo is?
Wah then, niver heed abaht brass;
Thy waage 'ull do nicely, wi' his.
Will he wed tha', as black as thoo is?
Wah then, niver heed abaht brass;
Thy waage 'ull do nicely, wi' his.
Aye—it's dooll, to be allas aloan,
An' lodge in anoother mon room;
Wi' nowt yo can reckon yer awn,
Not sae mooch as yer spaade an' yer broom!
An' lodge in anoother mon room;
Wi' nowt yo can reckon yer awn,
Not sae mooch as yer spaade an' yer broom!
Bud men is sae bad te mak' oot—
Yo niver can tell wat tha meean!
Yon Jemmy'd ha' wed ma', naw doot,
If Ah'd doon wat E owt tull ha' deean.
Yo niver can tell wat tha meean!
Yon Jemmy'd ha' wed ma', naw doot,
If Ah'd doon wat E owt tull ha' deean.
Waw could think, 'at he'd deah wat he did—
Him a sweetheart, as keen as could be!
Bud he left ma—an' joost to get rid
O' the bairn i' mah bally, an' me.
Him a sweetheart, as keen as could be!
Bud he left ma—an' joost to get rid
O' the bairn i' mah bally, an' me.
He was nobbut a lad iv his teens—
An' as kind as Ah iver did see;
We was maates, for wa wrought oop o' the Mesnes,
An' him joost a drawer, lahk me.
An' as kind as Ah iver did see;
We was maates, for wa wrought oop o' the Mesnes,
An' him joost a drawer, lahk me.
Bud tha' rawse him—he allas was quick,
An' Ah was as stupid ageean;
He addled good waage wi' his pick,
Bud Ah stoock te mah belt an' mah cheean.
An' Ah was as stupid ageean;
He addled good waage wi' his pick,
Bud Ah stoock te mah belt an' mah cheean.
161
Ah worrk'd for him, efter a bit;
He was th' getter, an' Ah was his fawl:
An' theer wasn't a stronger i' th' pit,
For te draw a good toobfull o' cawl!
He was th' getter, an' Ah was his fawl:
An' theer wasn't a stronger i' th' pit,
For te draw a good toobfull o' cawl!
Bud tha' rawse him sae offens, at last
He coom'd te be th' Gaffer at broo:
Thinks Ah, then he'll gie ma a cast,
He'll ha' me te worrk under him noo!
He coom'd te be th' Gaffer at broo:
Thinks Ah, then he'll gie ma a cast,
He'll ha' me te worrk under him noo!
Naa, he didn't; thah sees, Ah was big,
An' he knaw'd wat Ah carried was his:
Saw he left ma—an' theer Ah mud lig,
Lahk a fondhead an' feeal, as Ah is!
An' he knaw'd wat Ah carried was his:
Saw he left ma—an' theer Ah mud lig,
Lahk a fondhead an' feeal, as Ah is!
Bud him! Why, he rawse an' he rawse,
Wahl he made a new-fangled machine,
An' he went oop te Lunnon, thah knaws—
Aye, he went for te show it to th' Queen!
Wahl he made a new-fangled machine,
An' he went oop te Lunnon, thah knaws—
Aye, he went for te show it to th' Queen!
Wat hoo did tiv him, Ah canna tell;
It's a job 'at Ah niver maade aht:
Bud he coom'd back as graadly a swell
As the best o' eawr maasters abaht!
It's a job 'at Ah niver maade aht:
Bud he coom'd back as graadly a swell
As the best o' eawr maasters abaht!
Ah thowt he wur gone reet awaa,
For Ah niver heerd nowt abaht t' taale;
Wahl Ah catch'd 'em a-cracking, woon daa
'At Ah went for a penn'orth o' aale.
For Ah niver heerd nowt abaht t' taale;
Wahl Ah catch'd 'em a-cracking, woon daa
'At Ah went for a penn'orth o' aale.
162
Ah listen'd—Ah niver could think
Sich talk was agaate o' eawr Jim;
Bud owd Molly, hoo tipp'd ma the wink,
Sae Ah knaw'd it was saafe te be him.
Sich talk was agaate o' eawr Jim;
Bud owd Molly, hoo tipp'd ma the wink,
Sae Ah knaw'd it was saafe te be him.
Thinks Ah, it's all ower'd wi' me—
Ah sall niver see Jemmy na moor!
He's lahk oop o' th' top of a tree,
An' Ah nobbut crawls upo' th' floor.
Ah sall niver see Jemmy na moor!
He's lahk oop o' th' top of a tree,
An' Ah nobbut crawls upo' th' floor.
Bud Ah wouldna be bounden tiv 'im,
Te be iver saw graadly an' cleaan!
If ye gie ma a stie, Ah can clim—
Bud Ah sticks te mah belt an' mah cheean.
Te be iver saw graadly an' cleaan!
If ye gie ma a stie, Ah can clim—
Bud Ah sticks te mah belt an' mah cheean.
Well—woon daa (it was efter Ah fell
An' croosh'd ma reet 'and i' yon wheel—
It's nobbut a stoomp, but it's well,
An' as 'ard as a bit o' good steel),
An' croosh'd ma reet 'and i' yon wheel—
It's nobbut a stoomp, but it's well,
An' as 'ard as a bit o' good steel),
Woon daa, Ah was luggin' mah looad,
Dead set, bud Ah wouldna be beat—
An' thah knaws, when yo gan up o' th' rooad,
Yo mun walk o' your 'ands an' your feet;
Dead set, bud Ah wouldna be beat—
An' thah knaws, when yo gan up o' th' rooad,
Yo mun walk o' your 'ands an' your feet;
Sae Ah lugg'd lahk a good un along,
An' Ah coom into th' sixfoot, at last;
An' Ah likes te look hearty an' strong,
Saw Ah trotted awaa pretty fast.
An' Ah coom into th' sixfoot, at last;
An' Ah likes te look hearty an' strong,
Saw Ah trotted awaa pretty fast.
163
Theer was getters an' wenches an' that—
An' woon on 'em shooted o' me;
A chap iv a billycock 'at,
An' he shoots, “Wat, Big Jenny, is't thee?”
An' woon on 'em shooted o' me;
A chap iv a billycock 'at,
An' he shoots, “Wat, Big Jenny, is't thee?”
Ah 'eerd, bud Ah niver leeak'd oop:
Ah stood o' me 'ands an' me feet;
For why, Ah was waak as a pup,
An' Ah wouldna let aht Ah was beat.
Ah stood o' me 'ands an' me feet;
For why, Ah was waak as a pup,
An' Ah wouldna let aht Ah was beat.
Ah steeam'd lahk a cart-'orse, wi' sweat;
An' t' moock roonnin' off ma lahk owt!
Bud t' looad 'at Ah went for was fet,
Saw Ah'd nut 'ed mah trooble for nowt.
An' t' moock roonnin' off ma lahk owt!
Bud t' looad 'at Ah went for was fet,
Saw Ah'd nut 'ed mah trooble for nowt.
Well, Ah stood, for Ah wouldna give in,
An' as still as owd Needy eawr ass;
Wahl Ah 'eerd sich a fooss an' a din,
Ah woonder'd wativer it was.
An' as still as owd Needy eawr ass;
Wahl Ah 'eerd sich a fooss an' a din,
Ah woonder'd wativer it was.
It was straangers, a-scrattin' abaht,
An' a-talkin', reet ower mah 'ed;
Bud ther talk was sae bad te mak aht,
Ah could nobbut tell aaf wat tha said.
An' a-talkin', reet ower mah 'ed;
Bud ther talk was sae bad te mak aht,
Ah could nobbut tell aaf wat tha said.
Theer was two on 'em; woon was a gell,
An' o soft un, an' free wi' 'er toong:
Be 'er boots an' 'er skets, Ah could tell
Hoo was summat o' laadies, an' yoong.
An' o soft un, an' free wi' 'er toong:
Be 'er boots an' 'er skets, Ah could tell
Hoo was summat o' laadies, an' yoong.
164
Hoo was speerin' a vast abaht me;
An hoo thowt, bud hoo couldna mak sure,
Soom soort of a beeast Ah mud be,
'At hoo'd niver set eyes on afoor.
An hoo thowt, bud hoo couldna mak sure,
Soom soort of a beeast Ah mud be,
'At hoo'd niver set eyes on afoor.
Well, thinks Ah, an' hoo's nut sae mich aht—
For Ah gans o' fower legs wi' me looad;
A-crawlin' an' looggin' abaht
Oop an' dahn o' this moocky owd rooad!
For Ah gans o' fower legs wi' me looad;
A-crawlin' an' looggin' abaht
Oop an' dahn o' this moocky owd rooad!
Bud t' oother, he laughs, an' he says,
“Naa, it's nobbut a woman, mah dear!
An' hoo's draw'd here the best o' her daas,
Saw hoo diz leeak a lahtle bit queer.
“Naa, it's nobbut a woman, mah dear!
An' hoo's draw'd here the best o' her daas,
Saw hoo diz leeak a lahtle bit queer.
“Hoo's cheean'd tiv her waggon, Ah doot,
Bud Ah'll lowze her, an' then wa sall see
If this two-legged fower-legged brute
Can speeak te thah feyther an' thee!”
Bud Ah'll lowze her, an' then wa sall see
If this two-legged fower-legged brute
Can speeak te thah feyther an' thee!”
Saw he stoop'd, an' he lowzen'd mah cheean,
An' he tell'd ma te get oop on end:
Sae Ah did; bud Ah wish'd Ah was cleean,
For te stand afore 'im an' his friend.
An' he tell'd ma te get oop on end:
Sae Ah did; bud Ah wish'd Ah was cleean,
For te stand afore 'im an' his friend.
Ah was shaam'd, te be naaked an' black—
Wi' me breeches 'at stoock te me thighs,
An' hardlins a shift te me back—
An' me belt an' me cheean, sich a size!
Wi' me breeches 'at stoock te me thighs,
An' hardlins a shift te me back—
An' me belt an' me cheean, sich a size!
165
An' theer was yon man an' yon gell
A-stannin' and starin' at me;
An' t' laady, hoo gied sich a yell!
For hoo couldna think wat Ah mud be.
A-stannin' and starin' at me;
An' t' laady, hoo gied sich a yell!
For hoo couldna think wat Ah mud be.
Bud Ah says tiv her, “Dunna be flaa'd,
Dunna skrike, miss! Yo needna be fear'd;
If Ah leeaks lahk this 'ere, it's mah traade—
An' a roogh un, as may be yo'n heerd;
Dunna skrike, miss! Yo needna be fear'd;
If Ah leeaks lahk this 'ere, it's mah traade—
An' a roogh un, as may be yo'n heerd;
“Ah sweats, for me worrk is sae warm;
An' Ah's moocky, Ah canna be cleean;
Bud Ah niver doos nawbody 'arm,
An' Ah allas speeaks aht wat Ah meean.”
An' Ah's moocky, Ah canna be cleean;
Bud Ah niver doos nawbody 'arm,
An' Ah allas speeaks aht wat Ah meean.”
“That's reet,” says yon t' oother, “owd lass!
An' Ah laa thoo's a rare un te draw;
Sae Ah'll gie tha a taaste o' mah brass,
If thoo'll nobbut find room i' thy paw.”
An' Ah laa thoo's a rare un te draw;
Sae Ah'll gie tha a taaste o' mah brass,
If thoo'll nobbut find room i' thy paw.”
Aye, he gied ma' his moonny, quite grand,
White moonny, an' fresh friv his fob;
Eh, it shined o' the 'oof o' mah 'and
Lahk a sprent o' new milk upo' th' hob!
White moonny, an' fresh friv his fob;
Eh, it shined o' the 'oof o' mah 'and
Lahk a sprent o' new milk upo' th' hob!
Bud t' laady, hoo trimled lahk owt—
An' t' mon, he says tiv her, “Bah goom!
Hoo's nut sae well off as Ah thowt,
For hoo's lossen her fingers an' thoomb!”
An' t' mon, he says tiv her, “Bah goom!
Hoo's nut sae well off as Ah thowt,
For hoo's lossen her fingers an' thoomb!”
166
“Yah, Ah's lossen 'em all, sir,” Ah says,
“An' it's nobbut a foot, is this here;
Bud Ah walks on it easy, i' th' waas,
For it's hard, an' a good un te weer.”
“An' it's nobbut a foot, is this here;
Bud Ah walks on it easy, i' th' waas,
For it's hard, an' a good un te weer.”
Well hooiver, thinks Ah, Ah mun gan—
Ah sall catch it, if t' Gaffer's abaht!
An' t' laady was throng wi' her man,
Hoo fraam'd as hoo couldna speeak aht.
Ah sall catch it, if t' Gaffer's abaht!
An' t' laady was throng wi' her man,
Hoo fraam'd as hoo couldna speeak aht.
Bud t' mon, he could speeak weel enoogh,
An' he tell'd ma' te gie her mah paw;
An' hoo tooch'd it, this mooddy black 'oof,
Wi' her fingers, was softer 'an snaw.
An' he tell'd ma' te gie her mah paw;
An' hoo tooch'd it, this mooddy black 'oof,
Wi' her fingers, was softer 'an snaw.
Eh, Ah thowt, wat a thing, te be sure,
For a woman te hev sich a hand!
As white an' as sweet an' as pure—
Hoo's a laady, thinks I, Ah'll awand!
For a woman te hev sich a hand!
As white an' as sweet an' as pure—
Hoo's a laady, thinks I, Ah'll awand!
Ah didna tell her wat Ah thowt—
Naa, Ah kept it all in, te mesel;
Bud Ah leeak'd an' Ah woonder'd lahk owt
At t' faace o' yon bonny white gell.
Naa, Ah kept it all in, te mesel;
Bud Ah leeak'd an' Ah woonder'd lahk owt
At t' faace o' yon bonny white gell.
“Poor creatur,” hoo says, “wat a sight!
Wat a desput hard life thoo mun leead!
Why, if Ah was te be sich a fright,
Ah sure Ah sud wish mesen deead.”
Wat a desput hard life thoo mun leead!
Why, if Ah was te be sich a fright,
Ah sure Ah sud wish mesen deead.”
167
“Not a bit, miss,” Ah says, “not a bit!
For Ah's used tiv it, 'arness an' all;
If Ah's fit for nowt else, well Ah's fit
For te draw seven oonderd o' cawl.
For Ah's used tiv it, 'arness an' all;
If Ah's fit for nowt else, well Ah's fit
For te draw seven oonderd o' cawl.
“An' Ah likes it! te gan o' fower feet
Is as eeasy as walkin' o' two;
If ye'll let ma', Ah'll gie ye a treat—
Aye, Ah'll draw ye along as Ah goo.”
Is as eeasy as walkin' o' two;
If ye'll let ma', Ah'll gie ye a treat—
Aye, Ah'll draw ye along as Ah goo.”
“Yea,” he says, “thoo sall gie her a ride;
Here's a corf welly empty an' cleean;
An' wi' mah little dowter inside,
Why', thoo'll feel like a filly ageean!”
Here's a corf welly empty an' cleean;
An' wi' mah little dowter inside,
Why', thoo'll feel like a filly ageean!”
Bud hoo rued it; hoo hardlins 'ud look,
An' hoo coom'd ower gashly an' paale,
When hoo seed ma' cheean'd oop again th' hook,
An' cheean stickin' aht o' ma' taal.
An' hoo coom'd ower gashly an' paale,
When hoo seed ma' cheean'd oop again th' hook,
An' cheean stickin' aht o' ma' taal.
Well, Ah draw'd her reet oop te t' new shaft,
An' Ah went a good paace along t' rooad,
An' t' wenches, mah wod, bud tha' laugh'd
When tha seed wat Ah'd got for me looad.
An' Ah went a good paace along t' rooad,
An' t' wenches, mah wod, bud tha' laugh'd
When tha seed wat Ah'd got for me looad.
“Aye,” Ah says, “yo ma' laugh, bud Ah knaw
Ah sud allas be fresh as Ah is,
If Ah'd niver nowt else for te draw
Bud a nesh little laady, lahk this!”
Ah sud allas be fresh as Ah is,
If Ah'd niver nowt else for te draw
Bud a nesh little laady, lahk this!”
168
Then Ah watch'd 'em git oop inte t' caage;
An' t' laady, hoo gied ma' a smile,
'At was wuth a deal moor till mah waage,
If Ah'd draw'd her best part of a mile.
An' t' laady, hoo gied ma' a smile,
'At was wuth a deal moor till mah waage,
If Ah'd draw'd her best part of a mile.
Bud t' chap iv a billycock 'at
He slaps ma' o' t' showther, an' says,
“Big Jenny, wat wouldsta be at?
Thoo stoodies, an' seems iv a maaze.”
He slaps ma' o' t' showther, an' says,
“Big Jenny, wat wouldsta be at?
Thoo stoodies, an' seems iv a maaze.”
“Aye,” Ah says, “it's yon lass 'at Ah've draw'd;
It's her an' her feyther,” Ah says;
“For t' wench, well Ah niver ha' knaw'd
Sich a laady, i' t' best o' mah daas.”
It's her an' her feyther,” Ah says;
“For t' wench, well Ah niver ha' knaw'd
Sich a laady, i' t' best o' mah daas.”
“Well,” says he, “hoo's a graadly yoong lass—
An' it's loocky hoo didna knaw thee!
For Ah'll tell tha, mah wench, waw it was:
It was Jim an' his dowter!” says he.
An' it's loocky hoo didna knaw thee!
For Ah'll tell tha, mah wench, waw it was:
It was Jim an' his dowter!” says he.
“Wat! Jim, mah owd sweet'art, coom'd back,
An' favvers a masterly man?
An' me joost as roogh an' as black
As Ah was when his coortin' began!”
An' favvers a masterly man?
An' me joost as roogh an' as black
As Ah was when his coortin' began!”
“Yah,” says Billycock 'At, “an it's trew!
For he's coom'd te be maaster, hez Jim;
If thoo wants 'im te gie tha' thah due,
Why, Ah wish thoo mun get it, friv 'im!”
For he's coom'd te be maaster, hez Jim;
If thoo wants 'im te gie tha' thah due,
Why, Ah wish thoo mun get it, friv 'im!”
169
“Naa, it's 'im 'at gat summat o' me,”
Ah says, “an' he's getten it still;
Eh, Ah's woonder'd an' wish'd for te see
Wativer he's doon wi' mah Jill!
Ah says, “an' he's getten it still;
Eh, Ah's woonder'd an' wish'd for te see
Wativer he's doon wi' mah Jill!
“Ah thowt he was faan te get rid
O' th' bairn 'at he'd gotten, thoo knaws:
An' Ah loov'd it, Ah tell tha' Ah did,
Friv it croon, aye, te t' tips o' it taws.
O' th' bairn 'at he'd gotten, thoo knaws:
An' Ah loov'd it, Ah tell tha' Ah did,
Friv it croon, aye, te t' tips o' it taws.
“Bud he sent a yoong man for mah child,
An' thinks Ah, sall Ah tell 'im Ah weeant?
For t' baabe leeak'd sae nice when it smiled—
Bud Ah thowt, it'll clem, if Ah deean't!”
An' thinks Ah, sall Ah tell 'im Ah weeant?
For t' baabe leeak'd sae nice when it smiled—
Bud Ah thowt, it'll clem, if Ah deean't!”
“Ah mun addle mah waage doon i' t' pit,
Thinks Ah, weer nae babbies can be;
An' t' man, he leeak'd friendly an' fit”—
“Aye,” says Billycock 'At, “it was me!”
Thinks Ah, weer nae babbies can be;
An' t' man, he leeak'd friendly an' fit”—
“Aye,” says Billycock 'At, “it was me!”
“Wat!” Ah says, “was it thoo, 'at Ah seed,
Yon tahm, agaan Robison wall?
An' thoo said, 'at he'd paa for it feed,
An' a woman te nuss it an' all?
Yon tahm, agaan Robison wall?
An' thoo said, 'at he'd paa for it feed,
An' a woman te nuss it an' all?
“Then thoo's t' man 'at Ah's wanted te see!
Thah can tell ma', wat's getten mah Jill:
Hoo'll ha' maybe forgat abaht me,
Bud Ah laa hoo's a bonny un, still!”
Thah can tell ma', wat's getten mah Jill:
Hoo'll ha' maybe forgat abaht me,
Bud Ah laa hoo's a bonny un, still!”
170
“Yah,” says Billycock 'At, an' he laugh'd;
“Hoo is, then,—thoo knaws it theesel!
It was 'er, 'at thoo draw'd oop te th' shaft—
Yon white little laady-faaced gell.”
“Hoo is, then,—thoo knaws it theesel!
It was 'er, 'at thoo draw'd oop te th' shaft—
Yon white little laady-faaced gell.”
“Well, Ah niver!” Ah says; “if Ah'd knaw'd,
Ah'd ha kuss'd 'er, as black as Ah is:
Bud te think 'at yon laady Ah draw'd
Was mah bairn! Why, it caps ma', it diz!”
Ah'd ha kuss'd 'er, as black as Ah is:
Bud te think 'at yon laady Ah draw'd
Was mah bairn! Why, it caps ma', it diz!”
Eh, Ah wish'd Ah'd ha' knaw'd it! Hoo fraam'd
Wi' 'er smilin', as nice as could be:
Bud Ah says, “Naw, hoo moonna be shaam'd
Wi' a fower-footed moother lahk me!”
Wi' 'er smilin', as nice as could be:
Bud Ah says, “Naw, hoo moonna be shaam'd
Wi' a fower-footed moother lahk me!”
“Hoo mun gan wi' 'er feyther,” Ah says,
“An' Ah niver sall see 'er na' moor!
Bud wonn thing—for t' rest o' mah daas
Ah've a soommat, Ah 'adn't afoor.”
“An' Ah niver sall see 'er na' moor!
Bud wonn thing—for t' rest o' mah daas
Ah've a soommat, Ah 'adn't afoor.”
Then he ax'd ma, did Billycock 'At,
Wat soort o' a soommat Ah meean'd;
An' Ah says, “Wah, thoo's noan sich a flat!
Thoo sees 'at hoo's graadly an' cleean'd:
Wat soort o' a soommat Ah meean'd;
An' Ah says, “Wah, thoo's noan sich a flat!
Thoo sees 'at hoo's graadly an' cleean'd:
“Well, Ah's prood on 'er, then, as hoo is;
An' Ah thinks, wat a job it 'ud be,
If hoo 'ad te weer 'arness lahk this,
An' be nobbut a drawer, lahk me!”
An' Ah thinks, wat a job it 'ud be,
If hoo 'ad te weer 'arness lahk this,
An' be nobbut a drawer, lahk me!”
171
Aye, Sally, Ah's getten a pride,
When Ah draws wi' me owd belt an' cheean,
For te think 'at Ah gied 'er yon ride,
'At Ah couldna ha' thowt tull ha' deean.
When Ah draws wi' me owd belt an' cheean,
For te think 'at Ah gied 'er yon ride,
'At Ah couldna ha' thowt tull ha' deean.
Why, hoo rides iv a carriage, hoo diz,
An' wi' 'osses te draw 'er an' all!
An' me! well, thoo knaws wat Ah is—
Ah's a 'oss, like, mesen, te draw cawl.
An' wi' 'osses te draw 'er an' all!
An' me! well, thoo knaws wat Ah is—
Ah's a 'oss, like, mesen, te draw cawl.
Eh! them 'osses 'at draws oop aloft
They're a bonny sight grander till me:
Their skins is as shiny an' soft—
Wat, Ah've seed 'em, Ah knaws wat tha' be.
They're a bonny sight grander till me:
Their skins is as shiny an' soft—
Wat, Ah've seed 'em, Ah knaws wat tha' be.
Wad tha draw o' these low moocky rooads,
Lahk wenches an' gallowaas doos?
Wad tha deah for te loog eawr black looads,
Wi' a cheean 'twixt their 'ind legs, lahk ooz?
Lahk wenches an' gallowaas doos?
Wad tha deah for te loog eawr black looads,
Wi' a cheean 'twixt their 'ind legs, lahk ooz?
Naw, lass! thoo ma' reckon it clear
Wat a grand un mah dowter mun be,
When er 'osses hes 'arness te weer
Ower fine for 'er moother an' thee!
Wat a grand un mah dowter mun be,
When er 'osses hes 'arness te weer
Ower fine for 'er moother an' thee!
Bud Ah looves 'er; Ah's glad 'at hoo's rich,
An' Ah's glad 'at hoo's bonny an' fine:
An' Ah'd sooner be clemm'd iv a ditch,
Nor for 'er te weer breeches lahk mine.
An' Ah's glad 'at hoo's bonny an' fine:
An' Ah'd sooner be clemm'd iv a ditch,
Nor for 'er te weer breeches lahk mine.
172
Eh! Her feyther, he coom'd t' oother daa,
An' he says te ma, “Jenny,” says he,
“Wat, thoo's niver forgetten, Ah laa,
'At Ah yance 'ad a likin' for thee!
An' he says te ma, “Jenny,” says he,
“Wat, thoo's niver forgetten, Ah laa,
'At Ah yance 'ad a likin' for thee!
“Well,” he says, “an' Ah's friends wi' tha' still;
An' Ah'll gie tha' a good bit o' brass,
If thoo'll niver let aht abaht Jill
'At thoo is 'er moother, me lass!”
An' Ah'll gie tha' a good bit o' brass,
If thoo'll niver let aht abaht Jill
'At thoo is 'er moother, me lass!”
“Wat!” Ah says, “div ye think 'at Ah wad?
Div ye think Ah wad tell sich a taale?
Wah, eawr fawks 'ud mak 'aht Ah was mad,
Or droonk wi' owd Robison aale!
Div ye think Ah wad tell sich a taale?
Wah, eawr fawks 'ud mak 'aht Ah was mad,
Or droonk wi' owd Robison aale!
“Te think 'at a laady lahk 'er
Sud be bairn tiv a collier lahk me!
Naa, if Ah was te speeak on it, sir,
Wat a danderin' feeal Ah mud be!
Sud be bairn tiv a collier lahk me!
Naa, if Ah was te speeak on it, sir,
Wat a danderin' feeal Ah mud be!
“Naw! Ah'll tell ye wat, maaster,” Ah says,
“As seear as Big Jenny's mah naame,
Ah sall niver, te t' last o' me daas,
Saa a wod for te bring 'er te shaame.
“As seear as Big Jenny's mah naame,
Ah sall niver, te t' last o' me daas,
Saa a wod for te bring 'er te shaame.
“Naw,” Ah says, “yo mun put oop yer brass,
An' mak' yersel eeasy an' free;
For Ah niver wad tell sich a lass
'At hoo'd getten a moother lahk me.
An' mak' yersel eeasy an' free;
For Ah niver wad tell sich a lass
'At hoo'd getten a moother lahk me.
173
“Wat, a moother 'at draws iv eawr pit,
A moother 'at's naaked an' black!
Mah wod, wat a moother, te sit
Wi' a gell 'at's gat goons tiv 'er back!
A moother 'at's naaked an' black!
Mah wod, wat a moother, te sit
Wi' a gell 'at's gat goons tiv 'er back!
“Ah mun see 'er a bit, nah an' then,
Joost te leeak at 'er bonny yoong faace;
And mah taale Ah sall keep te mesen;
Ah sall leeave 'er aloan iv 'er plaace.
Joost te leeak at 'er bonny yoong faace;
And mah taale Ah sall keep te mesen;
Ah sall leeave 'er aloan iv 'er plaace.
“Aye,” Ah says, “Ah remembers them gaames
Yo an' me used te 'ev be wersels!
We was sweet'arts an' maates, Mr. Jaames,
An' yo reckon'd ma t' best o' eawr gells.
Yo an' me used te 'ev be wersels!
We was sweet'arts an' maates, Mr. Jaames,
An' yo reckon'd ma t' best o' eawr gells.
“Bud yo left ma'; an' niver said why,
Bud Ah thowt it was 'long o' mah child;
An' Ah did 'ev a middlin' good cry,
For it maade ma' feel lawnsoom an' wild.
Bud Ah thowt it was 'long o' mah child;
An' Ah did 'ev a middlin' good cry,
For it maade ma' feel lawnsoom an' wild.
“Ah knawna weeriver yo've been,
Bud yo've rawse, lahk te t' top o' the hill;
An' me, Ah's at bottom, yo seen—
Aye, Ah's nobbut at bottom end still!
Bud yo've rawse, lahk te t' top o' the hill;
An' me, Ah's at bottom, yo seen—
Aye, Ah's nobbut at bottom end still!
“Bud yo couldna ha' rawse me an' all;
Naa, Ah's boon' te be joost wat Ah is:
Ah's tied for te scrat amoong cawl;
An' Ah gets me awn livin', Ah diz!
Naa, Ah's boon' te be joost wat Ah is:
Ah's tied for te scrat amoong cawl;
An' Ah gets me awn livin', Ah diz!
174
“Ah speers for nowt else! Bud,” Ah says,
“Nobbut yo be a feyther te Jill,
An' Ah'll thank ye, te th' end o' mah daas,
An Ah'll worrk for ye, maaster, Ah will!”
“Nobbut yo be a feyther te Jill,
An' Ah'll thank ye, te th' end o' mah daas,
An Ah'll worrk for ye, maaster, Ah will!”
“Well,” says 'e, “thoo's a good un, thoo is!”
Saw, he seed theer was naw wonn abaht—
An', Sally, he gied ma a kiss!
Aye, he gied ma' a smacker, reet aht!
Saw, he seed theer was naw wonn abaht—
An', Sally, he gied ma a kiss!
Aye, he gied ma' a smacker, reet aht!
Eh, Ah stared when he kuss'd ma', Ah did!
For Ah reckon'd he'd think it disgraace;
An' Ah tell'd 'im te quick an' get rid
O' th' black 'at 'e'd got tiv 'is faace.
For Ah reckon'd he'd think it disgraace;
An' Ah tell'd 'im te quick an' get rid
O' th' black 'at 'e'd got tiv 'is faace.
Then he laugh'd, an' he wesh'd it awaa;
An' 'e gripp'd 'od o' th' stoomp o' mah 'and,
An' shook it, an' wish'd ma good daa:
“Ah can troost tha,” says 'e, “Ah'll awand!”
An' 'e gripp'd 'od o' th' stoomp o' mah 'and,
An' shook it, an' wish'd ma good daa:
“Ah can troost tha,” says 'e, “Ah'll awand!”
“Yah, Ah sear Ah can troost tha', me lass!
An' Ah'll rise tha' a bit, i' thah waage;
An' Ah'll gie tha' a 'looance o' brass,
When thoo cooms te be owt of a aage.”
An' Ah'll rise tha' a bit, i' thah waage;
An' Ah'll gie tha' a 'looance o' brass,
When thoo cooms te be owt of a aage.”
Aye, Sally, Ah niver sall clem!
For:'e said saw, an' sticks tiv 'is wodd:
Ah sall niver nae moor be o' them
'At mun peck for theer maat, lahk a bodd.
For:'e said saw, an' sticks tiv 'is wodd:
Ah sall niver nae moor be o' them
'At mun peck for theer maat, lahk a bodd.
175
Ah keeps te th' owd pit an' th' owd traade;
Ah addles full waage, lahk a mon:
If Ah can't deah sae mich wi' a spaade,
Ah can draw lahk a good un, Ah can!
Ah addles full waage, lahk a mon:
If Ah can't deah sae mich wi' a spaade,
Ah can draw lahk a good un, Ah can!
Well—if Ah's in anoother mon hahse,
Ah can deah wi' 'is coompany still:
Yea, Ah sits theer as mum as a mahse,
When Ah's getten a sight o' mah Jill.
Ah can deah wi' 'is coompany still:
Yea, Ah sits theer as mum as a mahse,
When Ah's getten a sight o' mah Jill.
Div Ah see her? Aye, wench, an' Ah diz!
Hoo niver knaws nowt abaht me,
Bud hoo talks te ma, joost as Ah is,
An' as plaan as Ah's talkin' te thee.
Hoo niver knaws nowt abaht me,
Bud hoo talks te ma, joost as Ah is,
An' as plaan as Ah's talkin' te thee.
Mah wodd, hoo's a scholard, is Jill!
Wheniver hoo gie's ooz a call,
Hoo reeads tiv ooz—me an' eawr Bill,
An' Meary—hoo reeads tiv ooz all.
Wheniver hoo gie's ooz a call,
Hoo reeads tiv ooz—me an' eawr Bill,
An' Meary—hoo reeads tiv ooz all.
Hoo reeads abaht sperrits in 'Evven,
Hoo reeads abaht divels in 'Ell;
An' thinks Ah, if yon woman 'ed seven,
Why, Ah've ed aaf-a-doozen mesel!
Hoo reeads abaht divels in 'Ell;
An' thinks Ah, if yon woman 'ed seven,
Why, Ah've ed aaf-a-doozen mesel!
Aye, Ah favvers them divels i' th' story—
Them black uns, 'at joomp'd inta t' sea:
Bud theer's niver a aangel o' glory
Could leeak lahk mah Jill diz, te me!
Them black uns, 'at joomp'd inta t' sea:
Bud theer's niver a aangel o' glory
Could leeak lahk mah Jill diz, te me!
176
Jones's Polly.
They stood together, face to face;
Both tall and strong—both stout and hearty:
And one was certainly a man;
The other, a most manlike party,
Both tall and strong—both stout and hearty:
And one was certainly a man;
The other, a most manlike party,
Which had a man's plush waistcoat on,
Button'd and stitch'd with artful stitches;
And all below her mighty waist
She wore a pair of fustian breeches.
Button'd and stitch'd with artful stitches;
And all below her mighty waist
She wore a pair of fustian breeches.
Also, her boots—clog shoon, they call 'em—
Were soled with wood and shod with iron;
Oh, such a size! I do declare
They would have shock'd the late Lord Byron.
Were soled with wood and shod with iron;
Oh, such a size! I do declare
They would have shock'd the late Lord Byron.
For he, you recollect, admired
The softer types of female beauty:
He little cared for female strength,
And cared still less for female duty.
The softer types of female beauty:
He little cared for female strength,
And cared still less for female duty.
Well, what are this one's duties, pray?
She wears a sort of woman's bonnet,
But none can see the face within—
So thick a crust of coal is on it.
She wears a sort of woman's bonnet,
But none can see the face within—
So thick a crust of coal is on it.
177
Ah yes—her face is wholly black;
She need not fear the gay deceiver—
Her beauty, what she has, lies hid;
Yet, strange to say, that does not grieve her,
She need not fear the gay deceiver—
Her beauty, what she has, lies hid;
Yet, strange to say, that does not grieve her,
That does not mar her self-respect:
A collier, and a collier's daughter,
She knows that all her charms are there,
And will come back with soap and water.
A collier, and a collier's daughter,
She knows that all her charms are there,
And will come back with soap and water.
So, when she looks you in the face,
Her clear bright eyes are calm and fearless;
She does not ask you to admire,
Or praise her looks, or call her peerless—
Her clear bright eyes are calm and fearless;
She does not ask you to admire,
Or praise her looks, or call her peerless—
Which word (I may at once observe)
Is quite beyond her understanding—
Nor does she know, how picturesque
Her presence is and how commanding:
Is quite beyond her understanding—
Nor does she know, how picturesque
Her presence is and how commanding:
She is not shy, she is not bold,
She talks to you as to a neighbour;
Letting you see her as she is,
A maiden used to honest labour.
She talks to you as to a neighbour;
Letting you see her as she is,
A maiden used to honest labour.
She does not think about herself:
Oh no! there's so much else to think of!
So many things to do and dare,
That you would tremble on the brink of.
Oh no! there's so much else to think of!
So many things to do and dare,
That you would tremble on the brink of.
178
Ah, if you saw her leap and climb,
Saw how she digs, and how she thrutches,
And how the flying wains stand still,
Once caught in her tremendous clutches;
Saw how she digs, and how she thrutches,
And how the flying wains stand still,
Once caught in her tremendous clutches;
And how she flings herself about
In merest wantonness of power,
And hurls her body down the shoot
As if she were a sack of flour,
In merest wantonness of power,
And hurls her body down the shoot
As if she were a sack of flour,
Until, shot safely out below,
She drops, feet foremost, in the waggon:
If you saw this, you must allow
She has a thing or two to brag on!
She drops, feet foremost, in the waggon:
If you saw this, you must allow
She has a thing or two to brag on!
She never brags; with silent ease
She does whatever work they set her:
“Hoo's like a mon,” the Gaffer says,
“Does full mon's work, an' does it better!”
She does whatever work they set her:
“Hoo's like a mon,” the Gaffer says,
“Does full mon's work, an' does it better!”
He's right: for pluck, and last, and skill,
And strength of limb, she yields to no man;
And yet she's feminine at heart;
She is not less, but more, a woman.
And strength of limb, she yields to no man;
And yet she's feminine at heart;
She is not less, but more, a woman.
Not puny, weakly woman—no,
She does not live by tears and trembling;
She hath a resolute disdain
Of feebleness and all dissembling:
She does not live by tears and trembling;
She hath a resolute disdain
Of feebleness and all dissembling:
179
She try to hide her rough black arms,
Her sinewy hands, her humble calling?
She'd just as soon refuse to walk
Along the trucks, for fear of falling!
Her sinewy hands, her humble calling?
She'd just as soon refuse to walk
Along the trucks, for fear of falling!
She care for finery and fuss?
Her soul hath no such petty passions:
She neither knows nor wants to know
The ladies' or the servants' fashions;
Her soul hath no such petty passions:
She neither knows nor wants to know
The ladies' or the servants' fashions;
Her interests would not interest you—
You, with your leisure, rank, or riches:
She cares but for a warm topcoat,
And one good pair of fustian breeches.
You, with your leisure, rank, or riches:
She cares but for a warm topcoat,
And one good pair of fustian breeches.
If you should see her when she's clean,
Admire her face, and wish to show it,
'Tis ten to one, she'd scorn your aid,
And not care twopence, who might know it.
Admire her face, and wish to show it,
'Tis ten to one, she'd scorn your aid,
And not care twopence, who might know it.
Her wealth is twentypence a day;
On which, she lives, and keeps her mother:
Nor does she think, in doing that
That she does more than any other.
On which, she lives, and keeps her mother:
Nor does she think, in doing that
That she does more than any other.
While, as for love—the man she weds
Must (if he can) be something like her;
Must leave her and her tasks alone,
And never, never dare to strike her.
Must (if he can) be something like her;
Must leave her and her tasks alone,
And never, never dare to strike her.
180
And that's why she rejected him
(Although he never dreamt of striking—
He thought too much of her for that,
And found her wholly to his liking)
(Although he never dreamt of striking—
He thought too much of her for that,
And found her wholly to his liking)
Him, who when first my tale began,
Was standing, as you know, beside her:
Indeed she let him have his say,
And did not mind how much he eyed her;
Was standing, as you know, beside her:
Indeed she let him have his say,
And did not mind how much he eyed her;
Nor did he mind her sooty face,
Her brawny arms, her manly clothing:
He could not view her with contempt
(As you might, dearest) nor with loathing;
Her brawny arms, her manly clothing:
He could not view her with contempt
(As you might, dearest) nor with loathing;
Oh no! He held her hard black hand
In admiration fond and fervent:
And who was he? I must confess
He was—he is—your humble servant!
In admiration fond and fervent:
And who was he? I must confess
He was—he is—your humble servant!
Yes; when I offer'd her myself,
And tried to flatter and to praise her,
And spoke about her solid worth,
And hoped to educate and raise her,—
And tried to flatter and to praise her,
And spoke about her solid worth,
And hoped to educate and raise her,—
She stared; and first, she clench'd her fist
(I much respect the fist she clenches)
And said I'd better just be off,
And not talk stuff to honest wenches.
(I much respect the fist she clenches)
And said I'd better just be off,
And not talk stuff to honest wenches.
181
But, when she came to know my mind,
And saw I really was a lover,
She fix'd her serious eyes on mine,
And said, I was too much above her.
And saw I really was a lover,
She fix'd her serious eyes on mine,
And said, I was too much above her.
“Yah, thah's a graadely mon,” she said,
“An' Ah's nowt else bud Jawns his Polly:
Mah maates sall niver saa o' me
Ah'd owt te deah wi noan sich folly!
“An' Ah's nowt else bud Jawns his Polly:
Mah maates sall niver saa o' me
Ah'd owt te deah wi noan sich folly!
“Lëak at mah worrk, an lëak at me!
D'ye think Ah wad be sich a gaaby,
As lëave mah pick an' spaade for thee,
To be a mammet an' a baaby?”
D'ye think Ah wad be sich a gaaby,
As lëave mah pick an' spaade for thee,
To be a mammet an' a baaby?”
Ah well! I knew that she was right;
Of course she'd hit the point precisely:
And though she still had all my heart,
I felt I had not chosen wisely.
Of course she'd hit the point precisely:
And though she still had all my heart,
I felt I had not chosen wisely.
'Twas hard, to see her stalwart frame,
Her clear bright eyes—'twas melancholy,
To think that such a maid must be
Not mine, but only Jones's Polly!
Her clear bright eyes—'twas melancholy,
To think that such a maid must be
Not mine, but only Jones's Polly!
“Well then, part friends, my lass!” I said;
“At least thou know'st that I could love thee;
And never think I hold myself
In heart or place, one whit above thee:
“At least thou know'st that I could love thee;
And never think I hold myself
In heart or place, one whit above thee:
182
“Shake hands!” She gave her hand again,
And smiled, and show'd her red lips gaily:
But oh, the grasp of that big hand—
I still can feel it almost daily!
And smiled, and show'd her red lips gaily:
But oh, the grasp of that big hand—
I still can feel it almost daily!
And then she toss'd her pick and spade
Across her shoulder, and we parted:
Yet still we meet, and meet as friends;
And are not yet quite broken-hearted.
Across her shoulder, and we parted:
Yet still we meet, and meet as friends;
And are not yet quite broken-hearted.
183
Th' Owd Cabin.
Wat, Maaster, yo'n coom'd oop te see us agëan!
Yo're maybe joost aht for a spree?
Wa mun gie ye a welcome, us few 'at is left—
An' that's Lizzy, an' Polly, an' me.
Yo're maybe joost aht for a spree?
Wa mun gie ye a welcome, us few 'at is left—
An' that's Lizzy, an' Polly, an' me.
Ah know'd ye, fost minute Ah seed yo o' th' broo;
Thinks Ah, yon'll sure to be him:
Wi' his billycock 'at, an' his leggins an' all,
Eh, doosn't he favver eawr Jim!
Thinks Ah, yon'll sure to be him:
Wi' his billycock 'at, an' his leggins an' all,
Eh, doosn't he favver eawr Jim!
Leäk ye nah! Here's th' owd cabin yo'n sat in afoor—
It's wārm, if it isna sae grand;
Coom insahd, an' Ah'll clëan ye a plaace te sit dahn,
When Ah's gien it a wipe wi' my 'and.
It's wārm, if it isna sae grand;
Coom insahd, an' Ah'll clëan ye a plaace te sit dahn,
When Ah's gien it a wipe wi' my 'and.
Hi, Polly, here's soombody seechin for thee—
Waake oop, lass, an' tell waw it is!
Why it's t' mon 'at oonce gied tha' a pair o' good clogs,
An' a graadely new bonnet for Liz.
Waake oop, lass, an' tell waw it is!
Why it's t' mon 'at oonce gied tha' a pair o' good clogs,
An' a graadely new bonnet for Liz.
Weer's Liz? Hoo's a-keckin, Ah laa, oop o' th' shoot;
An' Ah mun be off afoor long;
Sit ye dahn, sir, an' tell us a bit of a taale,
For wa've gotten naw tahm for a song.
An' Ah mun be off afoor long;
Sit ye dahn, sir, an' tell us a bit of a taale,
For wa've gotten naw tahm for a song.
184
Don yo mind, when yo seed us at Bartlemy Pit,
An' wa' soong ye, did me an' Big Ann,
Yon taale of a sweetheart 'at shot at his loove,
For he thowt hoo was nobbut a swan?
An' wa' soong ye, did me an' Big Ann,
Yon taale of a sweetheart 'at shot at his loove,
For he thowt hoo was nobbut a swan?
An' yo says, If yon lass 'ad been wrought up o' th' broo,
Why her faace 'ud be grahmy an' red,
An' he'd niver ha' took her, not he, for a swan,
Saw hoo'd maybe ha' lived to be wed!
Why her faace 'ud be grahmy an' red,
An' he'd niver ha' took her, not he, for a swan,
Saw hoo'd maybe ha' lived to be wed!
Eh, wat songs we ha' soong, an' wat taales we ha' towd,
Oos wenches, an' yo, sir, an' all,
When t' baggin was ower'd, an' we was a-sot
Wi' wer backs ageean th' owd cabin wall!
Oos wenches, an' yo, sir, an' all,
When t' baggin was ower'd, an' we was a-sot
Wi' wer backs ageean th' owd cabin wall!
Coom in then—eawr Gaffer's a good un, he is,
An' we'n gotten t' best aaf of an hoor;
An' Polly an' Liz 'ull sit wi' yo o' th' bench,
An Ah'll lig ma dahn oop o' th' flooer:
An' we'n gotten t' best aaf of an hoor;
An' Polly an' Liz 'ull sit wi' yo o' th' bench,
An Ah'll lig ma dahn oop o' th' flooer:
For Ah mind wat yo says te mah moother, Ah deah;
Yo says, 'at it's noan a disgraace
Te sit wi' a wench iv her breeches an' clogs
An' a smile of her bonny black faace!
Yo says, 'at it's noan a disgraace
Te sit wi' a wench iv her breeches an' clogs
An' a smile of her bonny black faace!
185
Heaving Day.
She was a splendid animal—
I seem to see her now,
At work beside the broad canal
Upon the coalpit brow.
I seem to see her now,
At work beside the broad canal
Upon the coalpit brow.
A dozen wenches stout as she
Wrought with her at the wains,
And thrust and tipp'd them gallantly
Between the bearing chains;
Wrought with her at the wains,
And thrust and tipp'd them gallantly
Between the bearing chains;
But as they work'd or as they sang,
Or as they went and came,
She was the leader of the gang;
And Alice was her name.
Or as they went and came,
She was the leader of the gang;
And Alice was her name.
Black Alice: such a name was due
To her above the rest;
For she of all that collier crew
Was blackest, and was best.
To her above the rest;
For she of all that collier crew
Was blackest, and was best.
She up or down the lofty shoot
Could climb and swing and swarm,
With coolest head and firmest foot,
And strongest, steadiest arm;
Could climb and swing and swarm,
With coolest head and firmest foot,
And strongest, steadiest arm;
186
She foremost, from the great pit-cage
Would hurry with her load,
And drive it swiftest o'er the stage
And down the iron road,
Would hurry with her load,
And drive it swiftest o'er the stage
And down the iron road,
And check it with well-planted heels
Or e'er it reach'd the goal;
And lift and poise the hinder wheels
To ease the flying coal.
Or e'er it reach'd the goal;
And lift and poise the hinder wheels
To ease the flying coal.
Then, as it thunders down below,
Such clouds of coal-dust rise,
That Alice on her airy brow,
Is hidden from our eyes,
Such clouds of coal-dust rise,
That Alice on her airy brow,
Is hidden from our eyes,
Until, erect amid that storm,
She comes again to view
With all her features and her form
Changed to a darker hue;
She comes again to view
With all her features and her form
Changed to a darker hue;
And thus, with every journey made
Toward the kecking-place,
Another crust of coal is laid
Upon her fair young face.
Toward the kecking-place,
Another crust of coal is laid
Upon her fair young face.
She cares not; wherefore should she care?
This is her daily task,
And well she knows that she is fair
Beneath her ugly mask;
This is her daily task,
And well she knows that she is fair
Beneath her ugly mask;
187
Well knows she, that when work is done
And Sunday comes again,
She shall enjoy, and not alone,
Her evening in the lane.
And Sunday comes again,
She shall enjoy, and not alone,
Her evening in the lane.
Meanwhile, this also she enjoys—
Her rude laborious life:
The smoke, the tumult, and the noise,
The busy bustling strife,
Her rude laborious life:
The smoke, the tumult, and the noise,
The busy bustling strife,
Are welcome to her stout young heart
And to her vigorous frame,
Intent to act her chosen part
And justify her fame.
And to her vigorous frame,
Intent to act her chosen part
And justify her fame.
For she is famous at the brow;
Beneath the Gaffer's eye
She and her mates are working now
Alert and lustily;
Beneath the Gaffer's eye
She and her mates are working now
Alert and lustily;
But “Alice is the finest lass,”
Says he, “among 'em all:
Look ye, how well she earns her brass,
How strong she is and tall!
Says he, “among 'em all:
Look ye, how well she earns her brass,
How strong she is and tall!
“She does a man's full work,” he says,
“And does it easy, too;
And helps us in a many ways
As no one else can do.
“And does it easy, too;
And helps us in a many ways
As no one else can do.
188
“Alice!” he shouted from the bank;
And the much-favour'd maid
Forsook her barrow and her plank
And instantly obey'd.
And the much-favour'd maid
Forsook her barrow and her plank
And instantly obey'd.
Catlike, she clamber'd up the stie
With eager feet and hands,
And stood before us silently,
Awaiting our commands.
With eager feet and hands,
And stood before us silently,
Awaiting our commands.
“Now then,” the grave old Gaffer said,
“If you're a father, sir,
This here is summat like a maid—
And you can look at her!”
“If you're a father, sir,
This here is summat like a maid—
And you can look at her!”
I did; adown her sooty face
I saw the black sweat roll;
But saw too in her eyes, the grace
Of woman's candid soul:
I saw the black sweat roll;
But saw too in her eyes, the grace
Of woman's candid soul:
And, since she had that best of charms,
I could not choose but bless
Her sooty face, her rugged arms,
Her coarse but seemly dress.
I could not choose but bless
Her sooty face, her rugged arms,
Her coarse but seemly dress.
Why not? all these became her well
And if they show'd her rude
In life and work, they did not tell
Against her womanhood;
And if they show'd her rude
In life and work, they did not tell
Against her womanhood;
189
That was still safe within her breast;
And he who sought it there
Might find it in as pure a nest
As Una's, and as fair.
And he who sought it there
Might find it in as pure a nest
As Una's, and as fair.
I knew this—not by her alone,
But by an hundred more
Such wenches, whom myself had known
At other pits, of yore;
But by an hundred more
Such wenches, whom myself had known
At other pits, of yore;
Rough creatures to the carnal eye,
But womanly within;
Kept by their healthful drudgery
From foolishness and sin.
But womanly within;
Kept by their healthful drudgery
From foolishness and sin.
Therefore, for all her manlike frame
And boorish dialect,
I hail'd this Alice by her name
With honour and respect.
And boorish dialect,
I hail'd this Alice by her name
With honour and respect.
I ask'd her of her work, her wage;
How far she had to come
O' mornings; of her health, her age,
Her kindred, and her home.
How far she had to come
O' mornings; of her health, her age,
Her kindred, and her home.
And she with rough but modest cheer
Did quietly reply,
As one who had no need to fear
A stranger's scrutiny.
Did quietly reply,
As one who had no need to fear
A stranger's scrutiny.
190
She lives with mother, on the Green—
A good three miles away;
And she, a maiden of eighteen,
Earns eighteenpence a day.
A good three miles away;
And she, a maiden of eighteen,
Earns eighteenpence a day.
“Tha rawse ma yance,” she sadly said,
“But niver stoock tiv it;
T' men was that faan te poonch mah yed
An' git ma sack'd frae t' pit.
“But niver stoock tiv it;
T' men was that faan te poonch mah yed
An' git ma sack'd frae t' pit.
“Tha couldna' beer a wench lahk me
Te be as good as them;
Tha'd like te tonn ma oot, d'ye see,
An' leeave ma oot, te clem.
Te be as good as them;
Tha'd like te tonn ma oot, d'ye see,
An' leeave ma oot, te clem.
“Aye, bud tha wawn't! Ah sticks te t' caage,
An' throotches theer wi' t' men;
An' if tha've bested me i' waage,
Tha shanna sack ma, then!
An' throotches theer wi' t' men;
An' if tha've bested me i' waage,
Tha shanna sack ma, then!
“Wat for should Ah be reckon'd nowt
For been a woman, sir?
If Ah can fraame an' deah lahk owt
Te be a laabourer,
For been a woman, sir?
If Ah can fraame an' deah lahk owt
Te be a laabourer,
“Why, that's eneeaf; Ah knaws mah traade
As reet as ony one;
Ah's joost as good wi' pick an' spaade,
Or better, till a mon;
As reet as ony one;
Ah's joost as good wi' pick an' spaade,
Or better, till a mon;
191
“An' as for likin', bless your sawl!
Ah doos, a varry deal:
Ah've allas ed te deah wi' cawl,
An' likes it rare an' weel.
Ah doos, a varry deal:
Ah've allas ed te deah wi' cawl,
An' likes it rare an' weel.
“Aye—mony a tahm, across yon moor
Ah've coom'd knee-deep i' snaw,
Link'd wi' me feyther, friv oor door,—
An' yit Ah tells ye saw!
Ah've coom'd knee-deep i' snaw,
Link'd wi' me feyther, friv oor door,—
An' yit Ah tells ye saw!
“For why, Ah's used tiv it, Ah is,
An Ah can deah wi' cowd:
Ah've niver doon nowt else bud this,
Sin Ah wer ight year owd.
An Ah can deah wi' cowd:
Ah've niver doon nowt else bud this,
Sin Ah wer ight year owd.
“Bud, Gaffer,” said the menseful maid,—
And something like a smile
Across her swarthy features play'd,
And lit them up the while
And something like a smile
Across her swarthy features play'd,
And lit them up the while
Like lightning o'er a thundercloud,
“Gaffer,” she said, “Ah laa
Yon gentleman was niver towd
'At this was Heavin' Daa.
“Gaffer,” she said, “Ah laa
Yon gentleman was niver towd
'At this was Heavin' Daa.
“Aye, us mun heave him yit, for loock—
Me and them t'oother gells!
An' if wa leeak all ower moock,
An' canna cleean wersels,
Me and them t'oother gells!
An' if wa leeak all ower moock,
An' canna cleean wersels,
192
“Why, he'll excuse it for a bit!
We're roogh uns, sir, it's trew,
We're nobbut wenches off o' t' pit,
Bud wat, we're jannock too.
We're roogh uns, sir, it's trew,
We're nobbut wenches off o' t' pit,
Bud wat, we're jannock too.
“Coom doon te t' bonk, sir, if ye please—
The'r waatin' of ye theer;
Coom doon, an' sot yersel at ease
'I Becky Preece's cheer;
The'r waatin' of ye theer;
Coom doon, an' sot yersel at ease
'I Becky Preece's cheer;
“An' us 'ull heave ye oop aloft,
Nicely, will me an' her;
An' let ye doon again as soft—
As soft as iver, sir!”
Nicely, will me an' her;
An' let ye doon again as soft—
As soft as iver, sir!”
The Gaffer smiled, but did not speak:
Though he was master there,
He knew authority is weak
In presence of the fair;
Though he was master there,
He knew authority is weak
In presence of the fair;
He knew she need not ask his leave:
For at this Easter tide
It is the damsels' part to heave,
Nor may they be denied.
For at this Easter tide
It is the damsels' part to heave,
Nor may they be denied.
Why, he himself must e'en be hove,
And pay his footing down:
Strong Alice, like the Bird of Jove,
Will claim him for her own,
And pay his footing down:
Strong Alice, like the Bird of Jove,
Will claim him for her own,
193
Will come and clip him from behind,
And hold him fast indeed,
And lift and poise him to her mind—
The helpless Ganymede!
I too might thus have been upborne
And hold him fast indeed,
And lift and poise him to her mind—
The helpless Ganymede!
For Alice with her hands of horn
Was quite as strong as I;
Was quite as strong as I;
But no—stern etiquette forbade:
A stranger of degree
May never by a single maid
Be held in jeopardy.
A stranger of degree
May never by a single maid
Be held in jeopardy.
Therefore in Becky's chair I sat;
And, of the girls around,
On this side one, and one on that,
Did lift it from the ground.
And, of the girls around,
On this side one, and one on that,
Did lift it from the ground.
'Twas Becky heaved me on the left,
And Alice on the right;
Between their mighty arms and deft
I rose to shoulder height;
And Alice on the right;
Between their mighty arms and deft
I rose to shoulder height;
And sat there, throned above the throng
Of shouting womanhood:
Twelve stalwart maidens, bold and strong,
And all of English blood;
Of shouting womanhood:
Twelve stalwart maidens, bold and strong,
And all of English blood;
194
Twelve faces, black, but young and fair,
And full of girlish glee;
Showing their white teeth to the air,
And gazing up at me.
And full of girlish glee;
Showing their white teeth to the air,
And gazing up at me.
And I gazed earnestly on them:
Were it not well, my dear,
That these should stitch and darn and hem,
Instead of working here?
Were it not well, my dear,
That these should stitch and darn and hem,
Instead of working here?
Ah, how robust they are, how rude,
These maidens of the mine!
Their hands and arms, alas, are nude,
And most unfeminine!
These maidens of the mine!
Their hands and arms, alas, are nude,
And most unfeminine!
Yes, truly, when compared with yours:
But, come another day
And see them in their spare half-hours
Between the work and play;
But, come another day
And see them in their spare half-hours
Between the work and play;
See them, all seated in a row
Outside the cabin door;
Watch how they knit, and how they sew—
And you will doubt no more.
Outside the cabin door;
Watch how they knit, and how they sew—
And you will doubt no more.
All in a moment, thoughts like these
Went lightly through my brain,
Till those strong bearers at their ease
Did let me down again,
Went lightly through my brain,
Till those strong bearers at their ease
Did let me down again,
195
And set my chair upon the ground,
And gave me kisses three:
For each, by solemn duty bound,
Owed her black lips to me.
And gave me kisses three:
For each, by solemn duty bound,
Owed her black lips to me.
Those black lips had a coaly taste—
Like honey from yon hill
Where pit flowers bloom amid the waste;
And yet 'tis honey still.
Like honey from yon hill
Where pit flowers bloom amid the waste;
And yet 'tis honey still.
And these were kisses: not so sweet
As yours, dear Isabelle,
Yet such wherewith a maid may greet
The man who loves her well.
As yours, dear Isabelle,
Yet such wherewith a maid may greet
The man who loves her well.
To me, they were but offer'd thus
In hope of some reward,
Some coin, some grateful obolus,
Some token of regard,
In hope of some reward,
Some coin, some grateful obolus,
Some token of regard,
Which I might willingly bestow,
At such a time as this,
On these poor wenches of the brow,
Who can but heave—and kiss!
At such a time as this,
On these poor wenches of the brow,
Who can but heave—and kiss!
I did bestow it; loud and clear
Those girlish voices sound,
While Becky brings the can of beer
And gravely hands it round;
Those girlish voices sound,
While Becky brings the can of beer
And gravely hands it round;
196
And Alice, with her best respects,
Drinks first, and drinks to me;
And not a maiden there, neglects
That formal courtesy;
Drinks first, and drinks to me;
And not a maiden there, neglects
That formal courtesy;
And all the swart and stalwart band
Close round me quietly,
And each extends her horny hand
And smiles, and says good-bye;
Close round me quietly,
And each extends her horny hand
And smiles, and says good-bye;
While Alice, ever fond and fain,
Is loath to go away,
Till I have sworn to come again
Another Heaving Day.
Is loath to go away,
Till I have sworn to come again
Another Heaving Day.
197
Boomping Nell.
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!
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.”
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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,
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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.
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.
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.
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,
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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!
Sir, you know what I can do: an' I wish I was at it ageean—
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.
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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
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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!
With a tub o' coal behind me, an' my own owd belt an' cheean!
Eh, what a shame it is, as they treats us wenches so!
Never with your leave or by your leave, they tell'd us all to go;
They've took the bread clean oot on oor mooths, aye, every mother an' maid,
An' all for to pleasure the men-folk, as wants to steal oor trade!
Well, if it's hard an' mucky, who knows that better nor me?
But I liked it, an' it was my livin'—an' so it had ought to be:
Surelȳ, a wench med choose her work! An' as for the dirt, you know
I was hardly blacker, down i' the pit, nor I are as you see me now.
Couldn't I work theer ageean, sir? I'd go as snug as I can;
I'd cut my hair quite short, I would, an' I'd dress mysel like a man:
Why, I've getten my breeches here, an' my owd topcoat an' all,
203
For my shouthers is rare and broad, you see, an' I never had much of a figure,
An' my hands is as hard as nails, look, an' as big as a man's or bigger;
An' what is a woman's voice, when you shouts, but never speaks?
An' my face 'ud be thick wi' coal-dust, so they'd never notice my cheeks;
An' the best on it is, I are tall, so they wouldna make much out o' me;
If I once goes down like a man, sir, why a man I can easy be.
My mates 'ud know me, it's true; but they wouldna tell, not they!
So, if you'll ony let me, why I'll do it, straight away.
But you winna gie me leave, I mun e'en be a servant still—
For you've always bin my master, sir, an' I know you always will;
An' I thank you for what you ha' done, for I know what a bother it is
For folks to put up wi' a outdoor wench, in a indoor place like this.
But service is crampin' work, an' oor Lizzie's a poor fond soul;
An' I sits o' my heels by the kitchen wall, an' looks at the scuttle o' coal,
An' thinks o' the pit as it come from, an' me a-drawin' theer,
Till I feels I can hardly bear mysel, this life do seem so queer.
Aye, you'd better come back pretty soon, sir, or you'll maybe find me gone;
An' you'll know what work I ha' gone to, for I cares for nobbut one:
I was bred to a collier's life, you see, an' theer's nothing I like so well;
An' I'll have it ageean, if I dies for it, or my name inna Boompin' Nell.
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 | |