Mary Weston Fordham

Sleep, love sleep, The night winds sigh, In soft lullaby. The Lark is at rest With the dew on her breast. So close those dear eyes, That borrowed their hue From the heavens so blue, Sleep, love sleep. Sleep, love sleep, The pale moon looks down On the valleys around, The Glow Moth is flying, The South wind is sighing, And I am low lying, With lute deftly strung, To pour out my song, Sleep, love sleep.

Just look, ’tis quarter past six, love— And not even the fires are caught; Well, you know I must be at the office— But, as usual, the breakfast ’ll be late. Now hurry and wake up the children; And dress them as fast as you can; ‘Poor dearies,’ I know they’ll be tardy, Dear me, ‘what a slow, poky man!’ Have the tenderloin broiled nice and juicy— Have the toast browned and buttered all right; And be sure you settle the coffee: Be sure that the silver is bright. When ready, just run up and call me— At eight, to the office I go, Lest poverty, grim, should o’ertake us— ‘’Tis bread and butter,’ you know. The bottom from stocks may fall out, My bonds may get below par; Then surely, I seldom could spare you A nickel, to buy a cigar. All ready? Now, while I am eating, Just bring up my wheel to the door; Then wash up the dishes; and, mind now, Have dinner promptly at four; For tonight is our Woman’s Convention, And I am to speak first, you know— The men veto us in private, But in public they shout, ‘That’s so.’ So ‘by-by’ – In case of a rap, love, Before opening the door, you must look; O! how could a civilized woman Exist, without a man cook.