I SPOSE ’tis I—and yet, so strange
I feel, I doubt if I’m all right.
Only since Tuesday last this change,
And this is Friday night.

On Monday, life was very drear,
My missus was so cross,
’Cos how I’d spilt a jug of beer—
She, who calls money dross.

She thinks herself a very saint,
‘Cos she reads prayers to us;
But Sal the cook, and I, we ain’t
Imposed on by her fuss.

’Tis not the prayers I think is bad,
But those who are so good
Should act as if they feelings had
Towards we—who are flesh and blood.

But now if missus ’gins to scold
I do not care a straw,
For Tom, on Tuesday morning, told
Me not to mind her jaw.

I now can dance, and laugh, and sing,
Altho’ I work all day.
Surely it is a funny thing,
I’m all at once so gay.

All ’cos Tom’s in love with me,
And I’m sure he says what’s true.
He says love’s a mystery
Which in Eden’s garden grew.

I call love witchcraft, that I do;
It’s made me quite another;
Instead of being Mary Roe,
I may be any other.

Missus thinks I’m going mad,
I work with such good glee;
’Tis only that my heart is glad
’Cos Tom’s in love with me.

I wish some man would missus love;
She might be kinder then.
She says her ’fections are above,
’Cos sinful are all men.

If she but had the chance, I b’lieve,
She’d ’cept the first with glee,
And would not any longer grieve
O’er man’s depravity.

She’d be as different as I—
Oh, laws! what fun ’twould be;
For missus is a very guy,
’Twixt you and Tom and me.

P’rhaps love would make her young once more,
And change her temper too,
For certain, love has witchcraft’s power,
All things he likes, to do.

Tom says so, and so ’tis true,
Tom never tells a lie;
And what Tom bids I’ll always do,
Until at last I die.