Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS, by ALFRED TENNYSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Milk for my sweet-arts, bess! Fur it mun be the time about now
Last Line: Till robby an' steevie 'es 'ed their lap -- an' it sarves ye right.
Alternate Author Name(s): Tennyson, Lord Alfred; Tennyson, 1st Baron; Tennyson Of Aldworth And Farringford, Baron
Subject(s): Spinsters; Old Maids


I

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' -- does n't tha see
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' me?

II

Naay, to 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!

III

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.

IV

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.

V

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 was n'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
could n'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.

VI

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.

VII

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.

VIII

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 midder o' flowers i' Maay --
Why 'ed n't tha wiped thy shoes? it wur clatted all ower wi' claay.
An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it could n't be,
An', Robby, I gied tha a raatin' that sattled thy coortin' o' me.
An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin' the floor,
That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble an' plague wi' indoor.
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha moor na the rest,
But I could n't 'a lived wi' a man, an' I knaws it be all
fur the best.

IX

Naay -- let ma stroak tha down till I 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 'a 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.

X

Swearin' agean, you Toms, as ye used to do twelve year sin'!
Ye niver eard Steevie swear 'cep' it wur 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? I warrant ye soom fine daay --
Theere, lig down -- I shall hev to gie one or tother awaay.
Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie? ye shan't hev a drop
fro' the paail.
Steevie be right good manners bang thruf to the tip o' the taail.

XI

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.

XII

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 brannew 'ead 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;
'T wur es bad es a battle-twig '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.

XIII

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats,
But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hev n'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' does n't not 'inder the talk!
But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' the
clats an' the clouts,
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.

XIV

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.

XV

Theere! I ha' master'd them! Hed I married the Tommies -- O Lord,
To loove an' obaay the Tommies! I could n'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 'ev n't a word to saay.

XVI

An' I sits i' my oan little parlor, 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 woodbine an' jessmine
a-dressin' it greean,
An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a roabin' the 'ouse like a queean.

XVII

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 lady 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.

XVIII

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 'eard 'er a-maakin' 'er moan,
An' I thowt to mysen, 'thank God that I hev n'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.







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