Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE RURAL LASS, by CATHERINE (YEO) JEMMAT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE RURAL LASS, by                    
First Line: My father and mother (what ails them?)
Last Line: This world it should end as begun.
Subject(s): Marriage; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


MY father and mother (what ails 'em?)
Pretend I'm too young to be wed;
They expect, but in troth I shall fail 'em,
That I finish my chairs and my bed.

Provided our minds are but cheery,
Wooden chairs wonnot argue a glove,
Any bed will hold me and my deary,
The main chance in wedlock is love.

My father, when asked if he'd lend us
An horse to the parson to ride,
In a wheel-barrow offered to send us,
And John for the footman beside.

Would we never had asked him, for, whip it!
To the church though two miles and a half,
Twice as far 'twere a pleasure to trip it;
But then how the people would laugh!

The neighbours are nettled most sadly,
'Was e'er such a forward bold thing!
Sure never girl acted so madly! '
Through the parish these backbitings ring.

Yet I will be married tomorrow,
And charming young Harry's the man;
My brother's blind nag we can borrow,
And he may prevent us that can.

Not waiting for parents' consenting,
My brother took Nell of the Green,
Yet both, far enough from repenting,
Now live like a king and a queen.

Pray when will your gay things of London
Produce such a strapper as Nell's?
There wives by their husbands are undone,
As Saturday's newspaper tells.

Poll Barnley said, over and over,
I soon should be left in the lurch;
For Harry, she knows, was a rover,
And never would venture to church.

And I know the sorrows that wound her;
He courted her once, he confessed:
With another too great when he found her,
He bid her take him she liked best.

But all that are like her, or would be,
May learn from my Harry and me,
If maids would be maids while they should be,
How faithful their sweethearts would be.

My mother says clothing and feeding
Will soon make me sick of a brat:
But though I prove sick in my breeding,
I care not a farthing for that.

For if I'm not hugely mistaken,
We can live by the sweat of our brow,
Stick a hog, once a year, for fat bacon,
And all the year round keep a cow.

I value no dainties a button,
Coarse food will our stomachs allay;
If we cannot get veal, beef and mutton,
A chine and a pudding we may.

A fig for your richest brocading;
In linsey there's nothing that's base;
Your finery soon sets a-fading,
My dowlas will last beyond lace.

I envy not wealth to the miser,
Nor would I be plagued with his store:
To eat all and wear all is wiser;
Enough must be better than more.

So nothing shall tempt me from Harry,
His heart is as true as the sun:
Eve with Adam was ordered to marry;
This world it should end as begun.





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