THE WAITING-WOMAN.
I pity you with all my heart!
Your ladies play so mean a part,
As now-a-days old clothes to barter
For china, trinkets, scented water,
Or use them up for chairs and screens,
Less'ning an honest servant's means;
Besides yet shabbier plans than these,
The prevalence of locks and keys!
Making you live, all hugger-mugger,
On bohea slops and coarse brown sugar.
There's yet another 'plaguy way,'
With ladies of the present day,
Of lessening your hilarity—
By 'giving way' to charity!
To make it up there's ways for certain,—
Perchance your Lord, if in his hey-day,
May like you better than his Lady,
Though she's an angel,—vastly stupid!
But that's a freak of Master Cupid,
(To whom, of course, you constant pray,
And offer vows both night and day).
He makes too free in hapless hour,
And from that moment's in your power.
To keep your countenance endeavour,
Lift up your hands, cry "Well, I never!
In all my life knew such assurance;
This cruelty is past endurance."
Swear that you'd neither bring disgrace
Upon a poor, but virtuous race,
"Nor have an 'impetation' hurl'd
'Aginst' your honour, for the world!"
Then see that ready cash enhances
What he may choose to call 'advances.'
Five guineas for the least gradation
That leads to aught like adoration;
And have at least a hundred down
And don't, without loud indignation,
Be 'throw'd in such a flusteration;'
Make him fork out, or (ruthless lingo),
You'll "tell your Lady,—yes, by jingo!"
In such a family, if handsome,
Some one will offer for your ransom;
If stricken deep, the effects will show forth
In Chaplain, Steward, Gent, and so forth.
If from my Lord you've apprehension
Of what you can't genteelly mention,—
You must consider, with all def'rence,
To which of 'em to give the pref'rence:
My Lord's own gentleman, we'll say,
You've sense enough to keep at bay,
Because you stand of sin in fear,
And think him also insincere.
Only one caution, and I've done;
Beware of—my Lord's eldest son!
You may, if you've sufficient gnous,
Be future Lady of his house;
But if a common rake, then shun him,
Or thought him worth the least attention,
Entailing ills too bad to mention!
But whilst I feel this anxious strife
About your settling well in life,
Still let us both remember, that of
Some other things we ought to chat of.
Perchance some morn your Lady's ill,
And should be kept exceeding still;
Yet footmen call from friends of wealth,
To make inquiries of her health.
Go bolt up stairs; if not awake,
Give her at least a gentle shake:
If she's offended, blame her blindness
To such a Lord or Lady's kindness;
'Tis time enough if fiercely curb'd,
To say, "She cannot be disturb'd."
If your young Mistress be an heiress,
'Jimini!' what a chance then there is.
If you don't get five hundred cool
When she gets married, you're a fool.
Ask where's the mortal can resist her?
Yet make her fear that still you shan't,
Unless you're call'd a 'confidante.'
Put her in mind she's rich enough
To please herself,—has got the stuff;
Can choose from all mankind her prize,
Where'er she deigns to cast her eyes;
That friends are apt to feign rebuke
For love bestow'd e'en on a Duke;
That love's the dearest, sweetest thrall—
Almighty Love is all in all!
That worlds of gentlemen complete
Would die to languish at her feet;
That spite of fortune, or of birth,
"Love's—love's a heaven upon earth!"
Then a long string of rhymes run o'er
From Byron and 'dear Tommy Moore,'
Wishing—so much you dote upon 'em—
That you could recollect 'more on 'em.'
Then while your rhapsody she blames,
Though plain you've set her all in flames,
Of which, when giving some intense sign,
"Who'd bleed to death to own her sway
Down on his knees, that very day."
How to her honour 'twou'd redound,
To give him forty thousand pound!
Till in the dreams of 'sweet fifteen,'
She feels half way to Gretna Green.
Take care that ev'ry body know shall
The sort of goods at your disposal;
How great a favourite you are,—
Consulted with the utmost care.
Oft to the Park a visit pay,
The fellows will find out the way,
And oftentimes, when much distrest,
Confide their secrets to your breast;
There place a note,—away you bound!
And fling it back upon the ground,
Unless the truly sapient ninnies
Shall with it lodge at least two guineas:
Yet still, to make it seem more funny,
Pretend you never found the money.
You drop the note; your Lady'll find it,
Then swear, to make the joke the better,
You never knew you had the letter;
You only just remember this,
A saucy fellow snatch'd a kiss,
And must, without the 'slightest leave,'
Have left it, 'somehow,' in your sleeve.
Another way you yet can turn it;
She needn't read it,—she can burn it.
Not so: she'll just reverse the case,
And burn some other in its place,—
Nay, howsoe'er she seem to frown,
Swallow it whole, when you've gone down.
Follow this rig with each fresh man,
As often as you safely can;
And make out him who tips the best,
More and more handsome than the rest.
Indignant seem, if you detect
A letter coming indirect:
If thus a Footman interfere,
Off with him! off! with flea in ear;
Call him rogue! villain! 'out of place!'
Thus it will seem you scorn to league
In e'er so harmless an intrigue.
'Tis one thing this, but quite another
If slight flirtations please the mother.
'Twould fill a volume to impart
The intricacies of your art:
Now is the time, I must insist,
For you to play the moralist,
And use, as heretofore, your forces
To favour wedlock—not divorces!
Whilst you abhor, beyond denial,
The witness-box upon a trial.
You can detect each would-be 'Rover'
From the sincere Platonic lover;
Yet stir up jealousy's sensation
Among the 'lords of the creation,'
Causing the spouse compunctuous rubs,
Who dines too often at the Clubs.
Some one or other always spelling
To know the secrets of the dwelling,
Your plan must be (again confest)
Nor yield, without remuneration,
'Pry-ority of information!'
But faith! with you 'tis too assuming,
And really over-much presuming,
To such a subject to advert:
Your sisterhood are so expert,
And all so perfectly discreet,
Really there's but one more to cheat,—
(Yes, really on my life it's true,)
When any one has diddled you.
Besides, the undefined result
Is fifty times more difficult
Than all the shuffling and evasions
Our Masters need on like occasions:
Wherefore, with diffidence, I bend to
Some abler pen than I pretend to.
THE FOOTMAN.
The Footman's office is a mix'd one,
Employ of all kinds, and no fix'd one;
You're up to all things—devil doubt you,
None in the house can do without you.
If bold as brass, and smart and tall,
You'll be a fav'rite with 'em all;
All will admire when you approve,
With you the maids are all in love.
Your Master'll dress to please your whim,
Sometimes you stoop to copy him!
But scarcely any thing goes on
Without first asking, "What says John?"
You see the world, know fashions, men,
Have loftier airs than one in ten;
Amongst the fair so famed for slaughter,
P'raps captivate your Master's daughter!
Beware, though, while you thus importune,
Don't get the girl, and miss the fortune.
I knew a brother of our craft,
Who slyly tied the knot, and laugh'd
To think Papa must prove forgiving,
And find them both the means of living:
And so he did, (here fain I'd stop,)
He fix'd them in a fruit'rer's shop!
With final 'leave'—a precious warning—
To "send for 'orders' every morning!"
You go to plays, you quiz the Cits,
Become great critics, shine as wits;
Ne'er at a loss for something caustic,
And quite at home at an acrostic:
And whilst thus flippant, sprightly, able,
Can scorn a hooting from the rabble.
I venerate your office truly,
Having but doff'd the livery newly,
And, like yourself (as I've a notion),
Am looking out for high promotion.
If you are wise, care not a louse
By which some think, with much parade,
Our services are more than paid;
But, list to me, a better ending
You'll make, though far less condescending.
To learn fresh secrets, make a swop at,
Without reserve, each house you stop at;
And be not merely on the sly
To pick up trash, but make it fly.
Thus have it said, where'er you came,
Instead of robbing them of game,
You've shown a large, a lib'ral bounty,
And furnish'd sport for all the county!
Never be seen with bundle or basket,
(A proper Master wouldn't ask it);
Some blackguard boy, a closet hid in,
You'll always find to do your bidding,
Repaid with scraps (sufficient treat)
As you shall think both fit and 'meat.'
The self-same boy, with self-same pay,
Cleans all the shoes; again next day
He re-appears, just in the nick,
When errands you are sent upon,
Be sure to blend them with your own;
The boy can't deputize, 'tis clear,
When it's to drink a pot of beer
Or kiss your sweetheart; either wicket,
Wants an untransferable ticket.
Remember, when you wait at table,
To pick up all the wit you're able,
For bits of songs and scraps of plays
Turn to account a thousand ways;
You'll find yourself downright bewitching
With all the ladies in the kitchen,
Who'll swear you give such rare delight,
That brother flunkeys die with spite,
Venting new slanders without end;
For why? 'a fav'rite has no friend!'
The reason's plain why so abusive,
All hate an out-and-out exclusive!
When on a message you are sent,
(On your own whim more strictly bent,)
Choose your own words, and jargon even,
How should your Lord or Lady know
About it half so well as you?
And for the answer, (till you're bother'd,)
Let that be quite completely smother'd;
Or given at all, adorn'd just so
As you think proper things should go.
You're the best judge what sort of friends
(Best suiting with your private ends)
Will suit your general contriving,
And keep the household snug and thriving.
In all affairs of compliment
Not meeting with your full consent,
Contrive to knock up quite a pother,
And set each party 'gainst the other,
Raising a feud so fierce and wild
As never can be reconciled;
The best of friends make out neglectful,
And 'ev'ry think that's disrespectful;'
Nay, should the deuce himself so twist it
That you 'not no how' can't resist it,
You'll turn the kindest invitations,
And thus both parties, lost in wonder,
Of course you keep quite poles asunder.—
Instruct 'your people' when to roam,
Or kindly 'let em' be 'at home;'
Where, for the present, while we leave them,
May no curst tell-tale undeceive them!
To be in lodgings when your lot,
And there's no shoe-boy to be got,
You'll clean your Master's, without hurting
At all—the bottom of the curtain;
Or, if you have the exceeding nerve,
Your Lady's apron then may serve.
Scrape not your own, like vulgar mortals,
Standing outside your Master's portals;
But of your cleanliness to vapour,
Use the hearth-rug, and save the scraper!
Ask not for leave each rambling bout,
The less your fear to be found 'out;'
Though p'raps you've had a bout of kissing,
And no one knows you've e'er been missing:
All that your fellow-servants know,
Snuff candles with your fingers' ends;
And for the stench to make amends,
Think that your Master scarcely suffers
The least expense for polished snuffers;
Throw down the snuff upon the floor,
And what can man, or Footman, more?
It quite an easy thing to scoff is,
But candle-snuffing's quite an office!
Contrive it, when you know you're wanted,
To shun the room as if 'twere haunted;
But when there's private conversation,
Rush in, a downright congregation!
If left unchid, then all is well;
If not, then swear you heard the bell.
Secrets that 'drop' from gents and ladies,
The best of all your stock in trade is;
While you, a course more cautious steering,
Let nothing 'fall' within their hearing.
Indiff'rent still to praise or blame,
You soar above the sense of shame.
"The tea is good, the coffee ain't;"
No matter if the pot boils over,
Come what come may, you're still in clover:
Swear you took pains, 'more than a little,'
To please their palates to a tittle.
The march of blame begins to halt,
They pardon beg for finding fault,
And "ne'er again will blame in haste,
But all their mouths were out of taste!"
Thus you're repaid for all your trouble,
Enjoy the 'squeak,' nor burst the 'bubble.'
You cry, "Enough, then, for the present;"
Yet list to something still more pleasant.
I'll tell you how, if you're but willing,
From deepest fob t' extract a shilling.
A present when desired to carry,
If but a sorry pumpkin,—marry,
Make as much fuss (or even greater)
Than if it were a gold repeater;
Send up your Master's strict commands
To give it safe with your own hands.
This to the purse-strings gives a shock,
In other words, they're wide awake,
The money's yours, and no mistake!
When your own Master gets the like,
A brace of barbel, bream, or pike,
Stir up his generosity
To tip your friend a double fee;
Go snacks then with your liveried brother,
'Good servants always help each other!
All for our Master's truest glory,
At least while I may tell the story.
When you 'step out' for tittle-tattle,
A pot of ale,—a wench's prattle,—
To hear a street-professor sing,—
Or see a brother-footman swing,
Leave the door open to save knocking,
Or Master's nerves the slightest shocking:
Say your young Lady for a cab sent,
Or swear black's white,—you've ne'er been absent;
Or, of belief to take a fresh hold,
No, "never stirr'd from off the threshold!"
'Howsever,' if it's yet a lie,
In all disputes with cabmen, chairmen,
Act as if 'listed to be their men.
You "can't a-bear it, to be hard on
Poor fellows, that can't spare a farden."
Share in their woes, it ne'er can fail;
Then share in foaming pots of ale.
For all the world the greatest bore,
That makes a Footman feel most sore,
In winter burn, in summer shiv'ry,
Is wearing that curst thing,—a livery!
Choose, if you can, where some such queer one,
Although a neither cheap nor dear one,
May make you, from the thing you're wrapt in,
To pass for some outlandish Captain.
Put on fierce airs, 'tis sure to do,
Stare all the people through and through;
A foreign Count at least, not come short
A man of 'great account' of some sort.
Well, after all, man! never mind
The scurvy jeers of all mankind;
Keep up your spirits—quite the dandy,
Fortune, at times, makes her approach, man,
Both to the Footman and the Coachman;
Without a moment to consider,
You've luck to marry a rich 'widder.'
At noon your Lady calls the carriage,
When least you dream of aught like marriage,
Calls at a Chapel by the way,—
You're up to what's the time of day!
Bring home, inside, your lady wife,
Thenceforth to have and hold—for life!
Without such luck, or some preferment,
To make an end, I make averment,
Your post of honour is the Road,
And longer not to be withstood.
There's none dare venture the expression
A Highwayman's a low profession;
A short life and a merry one,
Make one grand splash, and all is done!
One last advice you'll say is owing,—
When to be hang'd you find you're going,
Which, for the robbing of your Master,
Just knocking up a bit of bobbery,
Manslaughter, or a highway robbery,
So probably the lot of one,
Vivacious, ever fond of fun,
(Risking a mere ignoble carcass
To emulate some noble Marquis),
Fast-going ones, at naught who'd stick.
To pass for a right (Flanders?) brick,—
Mark only this, your good behaviour
Wins, with your craft, eternal favour.
Deny, with loudest imprecations:
They'll throng the court with attestations
"Such honesty—before all men—
None e'er had yet, nor will again!"
Confession make on no pretence,
Save turning round King's evidence;
(I don't suppose, though, aught I say
Will save your neck another day,)
Your noble spirit, never vex it,
But make a sentimental exit!
The Lord May'r 'll do whate'er he's able,
Ladies will send you costly flowers,
To mollify your dying hours;
And 'white Japonicas' shall thence
Be emblems of your innocence!
Pretend (to make the Parson stare)
An extra-Ord'nary love of prayer;
The Jailer give a fond adieu,
And squeeze the Sheriff's hand in two.
As for the Hangman, make a pother,
As if you'd found a long-lost brother:
Some pledge of kindness give the Mayor,
If but a ringlet of your hair!
Thus, to the last, the gallows grace,
And none shall say, you've "lost your place."
—————
Thus far our Dean,—but happier times
Now wait on bolder, deadlier crimes,
When wisdom mourns o'er wise restraints,
And murd'rers serve for martyred saints.
With laws so changed, a realm's disgrace
When all but starts the maudlin tear,
For sufferings of a Courvoisier;
And Pity grasps the hand imbrued
In a confiding master's blood!
When the most hardened knave has hope
Of all things needful—but a rope!
And nought excites the mortal pang,
Save to behold a felon hang.
And why? Howe'er the de'il may angle,
In his 'right mind' no man would dangle;
Or, 'Monomania' far away,
Have a clear right to Bot'ny Bay;
For I've no trouble in believing
A 'Monomania' for thieving!
What fee, then, shall that Counsel grace,
Who'll fairly make out such a 'case?'
Can such 'opinion' e'er be bought?
I'm quite 'transported' at the thought!
Let sober Judges, then, give way,
And let Mad-doctors have the sway!
Let all things (for a time) be shown
Yet while these 'epochs' intervene,
Well may we cry, "God" save our Queen!
Now call me Whig, or call me Tory,
Wise rulers all, I yet implore ye,
Some better safeguard may be known
Both for the people and the throne;
For though no Radical, most sure
I grudge the Hangman's sinecure!
THE HOUSEKEEPER.
A fav'rite Footman you must have,
Always the most tit-bits to save;
Watchful for something 'none the worse,'
Or untouch'd from the second course,
It doesn't matter what precisely,—
You and the Steward 'cook it nicely.'
THE CHAMBERMAID.
You've more importance than the Housemaid,
As living where there's greater fuss made,—
A vastly more important clatter
Than where they only keep the latter.
You've nought to do but "up stairs clamber,
Down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;"
Take vails of all the visitors,
And chat with all inquisitors;
And whilst a secret's left remaining,
You're always vastly entertaining.
The Coachman is your usual lover,
Till you can coax the Footman over;
Who sometimes helps you in fatigue,
But always in a nice intrigue.
The worst mishap that comes to pass
For could invention stretch like leather,
You ne'er can 'jine the bits together.'
But still excuses may be had,—
I'll tell you one that 'shan't be bad;'
The girl, you'll say, deserved a pension,
Although it failed, for the invention.
The glass she smashes all to shivers,
And frets and fumes, and quakes and quivers
To think—whichever way to view it—
How in the world should she 'git through it.'
Th' emergency was sudden, dreadful,
And needed brains more than a headfull:
'Howsever,' calling up her wits,
(Instead of falling into fits,)
She lock'd the door; then fetch'd up straight
A stone of half-a-hundred weight,
Quick as if followed by Old Scratch,
And breaks a pane of glass 'to match.'
The stone laid down beneath the shelf,
(More softly than if down itself,)
She goes, with just her general airs,
It takes—precisely as she wish'd;
And yet at last the poor girl's dish'd.
When all seemed well,—at least quite fairish,
In pops the Parson of the parish,—
Talks of the height, the situation,
The weight, the laws of gravitation;
Prates law like any Romilly,
And ends with a fine homily;
Until, at last, I grieve to say,
He gets the poor girl turn'd away.
Still 'tis not oft that female tactics
Are set aside by mathematics;
Nor left to busy-bodies whether
A story fails or hangs together.
So then, as Kitchener would say,
"To devil it a diff'rent way,"
Swear that, amidst a strange perfume,
(Like brimstone, filling all the room,)
You felt a flash of lightning burn you,
And then, before you'd time to turn you,
Or wake at all from the surprise,
And in that state, midst horrid clatters,
Saw the glass lying all in shatters.
'Another way:'—it wanted dusting,
And you to set it right were bursting;
When lo! the moisture of the 'hair'
Had left the plate completely bare,
So that it parted from the wall
Without the 'leastest' touch at all.
And that's—though they may think it lame—
The best excuse that you can frame.
I can't invent but one more bolsterer,—
To cut the cord, and curse th' upholsterer:
But for a thumping taradiddle,
To no one e'er play second fiddle.
Now, as for little trifling matters,
As breaking 'chayney' cups and platters,
Or letting a large punch-bowl fall,—
Why never vex yourself at all.
"You're not surpris'd, since it appears
As it's been crack'd for years and years;
And as you took it off the shelf,
It's no use going into fits,
To prove the fact—you've saved the bits!"
Lying is, doubtless, half the trade
Of ev'ry clever Chambermaid;
Though yet it seems the chiefest sleight
To lie, and yet appear upright.
But one thing more, and then you've sped,—
Get your name up, then lie in bed!