Long Molly Samways
Went by just then.
Strange, how that girl
Gets off with the men!
With her head wig-waggling
On her long neck,
And her hair straggling
Down her back.
Past ten of the clock
She’ll get up in a daze,
And spend the morning
Lacing her stays.
She wouldn’t go
To the Whitsun Fair
Because of the trouble
Of getting there;
And if she be common
To half the town,
’Tis to please her back
That she lies her down.
Such a long, lazy
Slug-a-bed
Won’t have her sleep out
Until she’s dead.
And the Judgement Trump
May split the skies--
Though it should wake her
I doubt if she’ll rise.