_By Betsy Bobbett Slimpsey_
Oh Gimlet! back again I float,
With broken wings, a weary bard;
I cannot write as once I wrote,
I have to work so very hard;
So hard my lot, so tossed about,
My muse is fairly tuckered out.
My muse aforesaid once hath flown,
But now her back is broke, and breast;
And yet she fain would crumple down;
On Gimlet's pages she would rest,
And sing plain words as there she's sot--
Haply they'll rhyme, and haply not.
I spake plain words in former days,
No guile I showed, clear was my plan;
My gole it matrimony was;
My earthly aim it was a man.
I gained my man, I won my gole;
Alas! I feel not as I fole.
Yes, ringing through my maiden thought
This clear voice rose: "Oh come up higher."
To speak plain truth with candor fraught,
To married be was my desire--
Now, sweeter still this lot doth seem,
To be a widder is my theme.
For toil hath claimed me for her own,
In wedlock I have found no ease;
I've cleaned and washed for neighbors round,
And took my pay in beans and pease;
In boiling sap no rest I took,
Or husking corn in barn and stook.
Or picking wool from house to house,
White-washing, painting, papering,
In stretching carpets, boiling souse;
E'en picking hops it hath a sting,
For spiders there assembled be,
Mosquitoes, bugs and etc.
I have to work oh! very hard;
Old Toil I know your breadth and length;
I'm tired to death, and in one word,
I have to work beyend my strength.
And mortal men are very tough
To get along with, nasty, rough.
Yes, tribulations doomed to her
Who weds a man, without no doubt,
In peace a man is singuler;
His ways they are past findin' out,
And oh! the wrath of mortal males--
To paint their ire, earth's language fails.
And thirteen children in our home
Their buttons rent their clothes they burst,
Much bread and such did they consume;
Of children they did seem the worst.
And Simon and I do disagree;
He's prone to sin continualee.
He horrors has, he oft doth kick,
He prances, yells--he will not work.
Sometimes I think he is too sick;
Sometimes I think he tries to shirk;
But 'tis hard for her in either case,
Who B. Bobbett was in happier days.
Happier? Away! such thoughts I spurn.
I count it true from spring to fall,
'Tis better to be wed, and groan,
Than never to be wed at all.
I'd work my hands down to the bone
Rather than rest a maiden lone.
This truth I cannot, will not shirk,
I feel it when I sorrow most:
I'd rather break my back with work,
And haggard look as any ghost,--
Rather than lonely vigils keep,
I'd wed and sigh and groan and weep.
Yes, I can say though tears fall quick
Can say, while briny tear-drops start,
I'd rather wed a crooked stick,
Than never wed no stick at all.
Sooner than laughed at be, as of yore
I'd ruther laugh myself no more.
I'd ruther go half clad and starved,
And mops and dish-cloths madly wave
Than have the name, B. Bobbett, carved
On head-stun rising o'er my grave.
Proud thought! now, when that stun is risen
'Twill bear two names--my name and hisen.
Methinks 'twould colder make the stun
If but one name, the name of she,
Should linger there alone--alone.
How different when the name of he
Does also deck the funeral urn;
Two wedded names, his name and hurn.
And sweeter yet, oh blessed lot!
Oh state most dignified and blest!
To be a widder calmly sot,
And have both dignity and rest.
Oh Simon, strangely sweet 'twould be
To be a widder unto thee.
The warfare past, the horrors done,
With maiden's ease and pride of wife,
The dignity of wedded one,
The calm and peace of single life,--
Oh, strangely sweet this lot doth seem;
A female widder is my theme.
I would not hurt a hair of he,
Yet did he from earth's toil escape,
I could most reconciléd be,
Could sweetly mourn e'en without crape.
Could say without a pang of pain
That Simon's loss was Betsy's gain.
I've told the plain tale of my woes,
With no deceit or language vain,
Have told whereon my hopes are rose,
Have sung my mournful song of pain.
And now I e'en will end my tale,
I've sung my song, and wailed my wail.
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