  squiggle-line Who comes when called for, all agree, Is 'servant' good as good can be; Therefore, to save a deal of bother, Speak for yourself, and for no other. To put your Masters off their mettle, And all disputes the sooner settle, The only way is not to 'bend,' But 'give as good as they can send.' Never tell tales of one another, Except of some too favoured brother; But there it seems a rule confest To heap the faults of all the rest: I quite agree with Mister Gray, To get all favourites 'turn'd away.' Bribe little masters and young misses With sugar-plums and slobb'ring kisses. Thus they will say, "How good you are!" Let every servant feel as great, As if his Master's whole estate Were meant to furnish prog and pelf But for his individual self. The Cook, for instance, thinks it queer If twenty thousand pounds a-year Won't make the household richly dine,— And so the Butler thinks of wine. Groom, Coachman, all the rest 'run on,' Till sometimes all the money's gone. "Fortune's a jilt," and "plague upon her!" You did it all for "Master's honour!" And though yourselves alone have brought it, You're first to cry out "Who'd ha' thought it?" Yet this may caution some on entry, Not to set up too soon for gentry. When upon errands you are sent, (On something else, of course, intent) And absent more than half the day, Come back 'not knowing what to say;' Then is the time you'll see the uses Of a whole set of 'good excuses:' "A near relation came a distance, An uncle whom you'd never seen From 'such times' you were seventeen, And all that you could raise (alack!) Was scarce enough to take him back."— "Some one, to whom you'd money lent, Was making for the Continent."— Make out a story,—cram it full: The cock won't fight?—then try the bull. "A 'peeler' had the nation gnous To clap you in the station-house, Where you were 'kep' the morning 'through,' Quite ignorant of what to do, Although you'd rather lie in jail, Than ask his honour to stand bail; And all because (though past belief) You bore some likeness to a thief! A fifth, 'more betterer' than all, Was shipping off 'towards Bengal.' "You went to try to use your tongue, To save a friend from being hung; You wrench'd your foot 'aginst a stone,' And 'laid' your ancle to the bone; Which gave you such a horrid 'feel,' But still you must submit to fate, And hope you're not a deal—too late." Yet if, not mending much the case, You swear till near 'black in the face;' If each fresh story they despise, Though doing all that in you lies; Confess, and say from earliest youth You've thought it "best to tell the truth." Amongst the rest of my advices, Defend all tradesmen 'as to prices:' The very thought of an abatement Was for the little, not the great meant. And who'd oppose a little tricking, Which brings yourself a deal of picking? And where,—to use an honest course, The saddle's put on the right horse? Keep, then, those shopkeepers in view, Who'll more than wink at all you do;— In short, trust no one (to save trouble), That won't make out a bill for double. Mind nothing but your own affairs, And let the rest attend to theirs. Thus if, for instance, you are told To say (for that your only course is), You "warn't brought up at all to horses." The Footman's ask'd to drive a nail, And must adopt a sim'lar tale; He "can't in such a bus'ness stir, But Tom can fetch th' upholsterer!" To put out candles there are ways Demanding more than common praise. Some of you make no 'bones' at all Of dabbing it against the wall; Some twirl it round, and round, and round; Some tread it out upon the ground: Others will give the spark release, By drowning it in its own grease! But being mostly done in haste, Much must depend on your own taste; Only remember, aught prefer To a downright extinguisher! But candles, still, I've not quite done with, They're things to make such store of fun with. 'Put out the light,' and still there's room Its 'former' twinklings to 'relume.' If once they're lighted, that's enough,— But do not (never for your soul) 'Go for to' cut up candles whole! I knew a girl who cut her sticks, Because the chandler smoked the wicks, Convinced there must be something rotten With such a deuced heap of cotton: It didn't ('nor ought it to') succeed, Being a truly wicked deed! Write both your own and sweetheart's names (To show the height of both your flames, Your love and learning both revealing) With candle-smoke upon the ceiling, And never mind whoever laughs,— They're extra 'curious autographs!' To shut or open doors if loath, (And who'd be bother'd to do both?) To keep from quarrels about either, The shortest way is to do neither. But if the 'shutting' (quite a poser) Brings a command< Transcriber's note: Only most obvious punctuation errors repaired. The opening quotes in the final poem are as printed in the original. The Coachman is located on page 61 although the table of contents places it at 60. The table of content has been changed to reflect the actual location of the poem. |
|
