"There was an old woman in Surrey,

Who was morn, noon, and night in a hurry;

Called her husband a fool,

Drove the children to school,

The worrying old woman of Surrey."

T was an ancient earldom over the sea,

And it must be now as it used to be;

Yet the sketch is of one I have known

before,—

The very old woman that lives next door.

One thing is unquestionable,—she 's

"smart,"—

As they say of an apple that's rather tart;

For her nearest friends, I think, would

allow her

To be, at her best, but a "pleasant sour."

There's a certain electrical atmosphere

That you feel beforehand, when she's near:

And—unless you 'ye a wonderful deal of

pluck—

A shrinking fear that you might be

"struck."

She moves with such a bustle and rush,—

Such an elemental stir and crush,

As makes the branches bend and fall

In the breeze that blows up a thunder-squall.

And yet, it is only her endless "hurry";

She's not so bad if she would n't "worry."

And, for all the worlds that she has to make.

If the six days' time she 'd only take.

You may talk about Surrey, or Devon, or

Kent,

But I doubt if a special location was meant;

It may sound severe,—but it seems to me

That a "representative" woman was she;

And that here and there you may chance

to trace

Some specimens extant of the race:

For a slip of the stock, as I've a notion,

Somehow "in the Mayflower" crossed the

ocean.