Elizabeth Hands

Roger a doleful widower, Full eighteen weeks had been, When he, to meet the milk-maid Nell Came smiling o’er the green. Blithe as a lad of seventeen, He thus accosted Nell; Give me your pail, I’ll carry it For you, if you think well. Says Nell, indeed my milking-pail You shall not touch, I vow; I’ve carried it myself before, And I can carry it now. So side by side they walked awhile, Then he at last did say; My inclination is to come And see you, if I may. Nell understood his meaning well, And briskly answered she; You may see me at any time, If you look where I be. Says he, but hear me yet awhile, I’ve something more to tell; I gladly would a sweetheart be Unto you, Mistress Nell. A sweetheart I don’t want, says Nell, Kind Sir, and if you do, Another you may seek, for I Am not the lass for you. When she had made him this reply, He’d nothing more to say But — Nelly, as good night to you, And homeward went his way.

The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set, The candles were lighted, the ladies were met; The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle, The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle: The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan, And thus the discourse in an instant began (All affected reserve and formality scorning): “I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.” “A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom: “Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?” “He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?” Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart? Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart; And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes, And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes; Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair, He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.” “For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy, “A servant might find herself other employ: Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light, And send her to bed without candle at night.” “Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest ’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!” “What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?” Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve. Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell How to write to their mothers, to say they are well, And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man, Which is more I believe than one half of them can; I think ’tis much properer they should rest there, Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.” Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade; There’s no end of the people that after her come, And whenever I’m out, she is never at home; I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write, Than gossip all over the town every night.” “Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim, “Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim, And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty, Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.” “I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines, “That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.” Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done, I can’t see for my part what use they were on; Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout, Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne, It might have been useful, again and again.” On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed; She owned that for poetry she had no taste, That the study of heraldry was more in fashion, And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation. Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn, And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.” The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone, The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon, The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown, Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.

Ye tender young virgins attend to my lay, My heart is divided in twain; My Collin is beautiful, witty, and gay, And Damon’s a kind-hearted swain. Whenever my lovely young Collin I meet, What pleasures arise in my breast; The dear gentle swain looks so charming and sweet, I fancy I love him the best. But when my dear Damon does to me complain, So tender, so loving and kind, My bosom is softened to hear the fond swain, And Collin slips out of my mind. Whenever my Damon repeats his soft tale, My heart overflows with delight; But when my dear Collin appears in the vale, I languish away at the sight. ’Tis Collin alone shall possess my fond heart, Now Damon for ever adieu; But can I? — I cannot from Damon thus part! He’s loved me so long, and so true. My heart to my Damon I’ll instantly bind, And on him will fix all my care; But, O should I be to my Collin unkind, He surely will die with despair. How happy, how happy with Damon I’d been, If Collin I never had knew; As happy with Collin, if I’d never seen My Damon, so tender and true.

O what a strange parcel of creatures are we, Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree; We all are alone, though at home altogether, Except to the fire constrained by the weather; Then one says, ‘’Tis cold’, which we all of us know, And with unanimity answer, ‘’Tis so’: With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire, And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher; Then quickly, preceded by silence profound, A yawn epidemical catches around: Like social companions we never fall out, Nor ever care what one another’s about; To comfort each other is never our plan, For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.