  SHE was a housemaid, tall and slim, A well-conducted, modest girl; Her dress was always neat and trim, She never sported fringe or curl. She did her work, and kept her mind Intent upon her household cares; One fault alone there was to find— She left her dustpan on the stairs. She loved her mistress very much, She held her master in respect; Her grief the hardest heart would touch When they’d occasion to correct; But still, in spite of all they said— In spite of scolding and of prayers— Ah, me! to what at last it led!— She left her dustpan on the stairs. One morn while breakfasting below, And glancing at the Morning Post, She heard a wild and sudden “Oh!” That made her drop her buttered toast. She heard a heavy fall—and groans; The master, taken unawares, Had slipped and broken sev’ral bones— She’d left the dustpan on the stairs. They sent for doctors by the score, They fetched in haste Sir Andrew Clark; But master’s sufferings soon were o’er— That night he sat in Charon’s barque. Now in a cell at Colney Hatch A gibbering housemaid groans and glares, And tries with trembling hands to snatch A ghostly dustpan from the stairs. MORAL.Ye housemaids who this tale may read, Remember, backs are hard to mend, And injured noses freely bleed, And falls may cause untimely end; Your masters are but mortal men, A neck once broken naught repairs. Oh! think of this, ye housemaids, when You leave the dustpan on the stairs. |
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