Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY; AN ELEGY, SELECTION, by JOHN WOLCOTT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY; AN ELEGY, SELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Susan, the constant slave to mop and broom
Last Line: And ride themselves an airing with the devil.
Alternate Author Name(s): Pindar, Peter; Wolcot, John
Subject(s): Grief; Household Employees; Labor & Laborers; Sabbath; Slavery; Sorrow; Sadness; Servants; Domestics; Maids; Work; Workers; Sunday; Serfs


SUSAN, the constant slave to mop and broom,
And Marian, to the spit's and kettle's art;
Ah! shall not they desert the house's gloom,
Breathe the fresh air one moment, and look smart?

Meet, in some rural scene, a Colin's smile,
With love's soft stories wing the happy hour;
Drop in his dear embraces from the stile,
And share his kisses in the shady bow'r?

'No!' roars the Huntingdonian Priest—'No, no!
Lovers are liars—Love's a damnèd trade;
Kissing is damnable—to hell they go—
The Devil's claws await the rogue and jade.

'My chapel is the purifying place:
There let them go to wash their sins away:
There, from my hand, to pick the crumbs of grace,
Smite their poor sinful craws, and howl, and pray.'—

How hard, the lab'ring hands no rest should know,
But toil six days beneath the galling load,
Poor souls! and then, the seventh be forced to go
And box the Devil, in Blackfriars Road!

Heav'n glorieth not in phizzes of dismay,
Heav'n takes no pleasure in perpetual sobbing,
Consenting freely that my fav'rite day
May have her tea and rolls, and hob and nobbing.

In sooth, the Lord is pleased when man is blest,
And wisheth not his blisses to blockade:
'Gainst tea and coffee ne'er did he protest,
Enjoyed, in gardens, by the men of trade.

Sweet is White Conduit House, and Bagnigge-Wells,
Chalk Farm, where Primrose Hill puts forth her smile;
And Don Saltero's, where much wonder dwells,
Expelling work-day's matrimonial bile.

Life with the down of cygnets may be clad!
Ah! why not make her path a pleasant track?
'No!' cries the Pulpit Terrorist (how mad!),
'No! let the world be one huge hedgehog's back.'

Vice (did his rigid mummery succeed)
Too soon would smile amid the sacred walls;
Venus in tabernacles make her bed,
And Paphos find herself amid Saint Paul's.

Avaunt Hypocrisy, the solemn jade,
Who, wilful, into ditches leads the blind:
Makes, of her canting art, a thriving trade,
And fattens on the follies of mankind!

Look at Archbishops, Bishops, on a Fast,
Denying hackney-coachmen e'en their beer;
Yet, lo! their butchers knock, with flesh repast;
With turbots, lo! the fishmongers appear!

The potboys howl with porter for their bellies;
The bakers knock, with custards, tarts and pies;
Confectioners, with rare ice-creams and jellies;
The fruiterer, lo! with richest pine supplies!

In secret, thus, they eat, and booze, and nod;
In public, call indulgence a d-mned evil;
Order their simple flocks to walk with God,
And ride themselves an airing with the Devil.





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