The Spinster's Sweet-Arts

MILK for my sweet-arts, Bess! fur it mun be the time about now
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her paails fro' the cow.
Eh! tha be new to the plaace—thou'rt gaapin'—doesn't tha see
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' me?

Naay tc be sewer it be past 'er time.
What maakes 'er sa laate?
Goa to the laane at the back, an' loook thruf Maddison's gaate'

Sweet-arts! Molly belike may 'a lighted to-night upo' one.
Sweet-arts! thanks to the Lord that I niver not listen'd to noan!
So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my oan kettle theere o' the hob,
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the second, an' Steevie an' Rob.

Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou sees that i' spite o' the men
I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two
'oonderd a-year to mysen;
Yis! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es ony lass i' the Shere;
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby
I seed thruf ya theere.

Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly es sin, an' I beant not vaain,
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaain,
An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, ye said I wur pretty i' pinks,
An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant sich a fool as ye thinks;
Ye was stroakin ma down wi' the 'air, as
I be a-stroakin o' you,
But whiniver I loooked i' the glass I wur sewer that it couldn't be true;
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur pleasant to 'ear,
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 'oonderd a-year.

D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' togither, an' stood
By the claay'd-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared at, i' Gigglesby wood,
Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, es 'ed been disgraaced?
An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeapin about my waaist;
An' me es wur allus afear'd of a man's gittin' ower fond,
I sidled awaay an' awaay till I plumpt foot fust i' the pond;
And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did that daay,
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' the claay.
Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy taail, tha may gie ma a kiss,
Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver sa nigh saayin' Yis.
But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was shaamed to cross Gigglesby Greean,
Fur a cat may loook at a king thou knaws but the cat mun be clean.
Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' the winders o' Gigglesby Hinn—
Naay, but the claws o' tha! quiet! they pricks clean thruf to the skin—
An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brokken shed i' the laane at the back,
Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha once, an' thou runn'd oop o' the thack;
An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, fur theere we was forced to 'ide,
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and one o' the Tommies beside.

Theere now, what art 'a mewin at, Steevie?
for owt I can tell—
Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt
'a liked tha as well.

But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while
I wur chaangin' my gown,
An' I thowt shall I chaange my staate?
but, O Lord, upo' coomin' down—

My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midde o' flowers i' Maay—
Why 'edn't tha wiped thy shoes? it wu clatted all ower wi' claay.
An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it couldn't be,
An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that sattled thy coortin o' me.
An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we wa a-cleanin' the floor,
That a man be a durty thing an' a troubl an' plague wi' indoor.
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha moor na the rest,
But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man an' knaws it be all fur the best.

Naay—let ma stroak tha down till maakes tha es smooth es silk,
But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd not 'a been worth thy milk,
Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but' left me the work to do,
And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so es all that I 'ears be true;
But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy an' soa purr awaay, my dear,
Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro my oan two 'oonderd a-year.

Swearin agean, you Toms, as ye used t( do twelve year sin'!
Ye niver 'card Steevie swear 'cep' it wu at a dog coomin' in,
An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be hallus a-shawin' your claws,
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither— an' one o' ye dead ye knaws!
Coom give hoaver then, weant ye?
warrant ye soom fine daay—
Theere, lig down—I shall hev to gie one or tother awaay.
Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie? yt shant hev a drop fro' the paail.
Steevie be right good manners bang thru to the tip o' the taail.

Robby, git down wi' tha, wilt tha? let
Steevie coom oop o' my knee.
Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh been the Steevie fur me!
Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur burn an' bred i' the 'ouse,
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby es iver patted a mouse.

An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 'ed led tha a quieter life
Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder! "A faaithful an' loovin' wife!"
An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' thy windmill oop o' the croft,
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha?
but that wur a bit ower soft,
Thaw thou was es soaber es daay, wi' a niced red faace, an' es clean
Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a bran-new 'eead o' the Queean,
An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen', fur,
Steevie, tha kep' it sa neat
That I niver not spied sa much es a poppy along wi' the wheat,
An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeadin' tha haated to see;
'Twur es bad es a battle-twig i 'ere i' my oan blue chaumber to me.
Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur I could 'a taaen to tha well,
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' a gell.

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats,
But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hevn't naw likin' fur brats;
Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goas fur a walk,
Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' doesn't not 'inder the talk!
But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts,
J Earwig.

An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces an' maakin' ma deaf wi' their shouts,
An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set upo' springs,
An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saayin' ondecent things,
An' a-callin' ma 'hugly' mayhap to my faace, or a tearin' my gown—
Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them
Tommies—Steevie git down.

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you.
I tell'd ya, na moor o' that!
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother
Tom 'ere o' the mat.

Theere! I ha' master'd them I Red I married the Tommies—O Lord,
To loove an' obaay the Tommies! I couldn't 'a stuck by my word.
To be horder'd about, an' waaked, when
Molly'd put out the light,
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' the night!
An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs,
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 'is 'ead o' the chairs!
An' noan o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let me 'a hed my oan waay,
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when they
'evn't a word to saay.

An' I sits i' my oan little parlour, an' sarved by my oan little lass,
Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' my oan bed o' sparrow-grass,
An' my oan door-poorch wi' the wood-bine an' jessmine a-dressin' it greean,
An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a robin' the 'ouse like a Queean.

An' the little gells bobs to ma hoffens es
I be abroad i' the laanes,
When I goas fur to coomfut the poor es be down wi' their haaches an' their paains:
An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' meat when it beant too dear,
They maakes ma a graater Laady nor 'er i' the mansion theer,
Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how much to spare or to spend;
An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if soa please God, to the hend.

Mew! mew!—Bess wi' the milk! what ha maade our Molly sa laate?
It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere
—it be strikin' height—
'Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf' well—I
'card 'er a maakin' 'er moan,
An' I thowt to mysen' thank God that I hevn't naw cauf o' my oan.'
Theere!
Set it down!
Now Robby!
You Tommies shall waait to-night
Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap
—an' it sarves ye right.