Ne sit ancillae

Poor little Teignmouth slavey,
Squat, but rosy!
Slatternly, but cosy!
A humble adjunct of the British navy,
A fifth-rate dabbler in the British gravy —
How was I mirrored? In what spiritual dress
Appeared I to your struggling consciousness?

Thump! bump!
A dump
Of first a knife and then a fork!
Then plump
A mustard-pot! Then slump, stump, frump,
The plates
Like slates —
And lastly fearful wrestling with a cork!
And so I thought: — " Poor thing!
She has not any wing
To waft her from the grease,
To give her soul release
From this dull sphere
Of baccy, beef, and beer."

But, as it happed,
I spoke of Chagford, Chagford by the moor,
Sweet Chagford town. Then, pure
And bright as Burton tapped
By master hand,
Then, red as is a peach,
My little maid found speech —
Gave me to understand
She knew " them parts ";
And to our several hearts
We stood elate,
As each revealed to each
A mate —
She stood, I sate,
And saw within her eyes
The folly of an infinite surprise.