  squiggle-line You've more importance than the Housemaid, As living where there's greater fuss made,— A vastly more important clatter Than where they only keep the latter. You've nought to do but "up stairs clamber, Down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;" Take vails of all the visitors, And chat with all inquisitors; And whilst a secret's left remaining, You're always vastly entertaining. The Coachman is your usual lover, Till you can coax the Footman over; Who sometimes helps you in fatigue, But always in a nice intrigue. The worst mishap that comes to pass For could invention stretch like leather, You ne'er can 'jine the bits together.' But still excuses may be had,— I'll tell you one that 'shan't be bad;' The girl, you'll say, deserved a pension, Although it failed, for the invention. The glass she smashes all to shivers, And frets and fumes, and quakes and quivers To think—whichever way to view it— How in the world should she 'git through it.' Th' emergency was sudden, dreadful, And needed brains more than a headfull: 'Howsever,' calling up her wits, (Instead of falling into fits,) She lock'd the door; then fetch'd up straight A stone of half-a-hundred weight, Quick as if followed by Old Scratch, And breaks a pane of glass 'to match.' The stone laid down beneath the shelf, (More softly than if down itself,) She goes, with just her general airs, It takes—precisely as she wish'd; And yet at last the poor girl's dish'd. When all seemed well,—at least quite fairish, In pops the Parson of the parish,— Talks of the height, the situation, The weight, the laws of gravitation; Prates law like any Romilly, And ends with a fine homily; Until, at last, I grieve to say, He gets the poor girl turn'd away. Still 'tis not oft that female tactics Are set aside by mathematics; Nor left to busy-bodies whether A story fails or hangs together. So then, as Kitchener would say, "To devil it a diff'rent way," Swear that, amidst a strange perfume, (Like brimstone, filling all the room,) You felt a flash of lightning burn you, And then, before you'd time to turn you, Or wake at all from the surprise, And in that state, midst horrid clatters, Saw the glass lying all in shatters. 'Another way:'—it wanted dusting, And you to set it right were bursting; When lo! the moisture of the 'hair' Had left the plate completely bare, So that it parted from the wall Without the 'leastest' touch at all. And that's—though they may think it lame— The best excuse that you can frame. I can't invent but one more bolsterer,— To cut the cord, and curse th' upholsterer: But for a thumping taradiddle, To no one e'er play second fiddle. Now, as for little trifling matters, As breaking 'chayney' cups and platters, Or letting a large punch-bowl fall,— Why never vex yourself at all. "You're not surpris'd, since it appears As it's been crack'd for years and years; And as you took it off the shelf, It's no use going into fits, To prove the fact—you've saved the bits!" Lying is, doubtless, half the trade Of ev'ry clever Chambermaid; Though yet it seems the chiefest sleight To lie, and yet appear upright. But one thing more, and then you've sped,— Get your name up, then lie in bed! |
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