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There’s the other day, for my sight is short, and
I saw what was green beyond,
And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till
I walked in the duckweed pond:
Or perhaps when I’ve pully-hauled up a bank
they see me come launching down,
As none but a stout London female can do as is
come a first time out of town.
Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a
verdurous seat to find,
But for my part I always found it a joy that
brought a repentance behind;
For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained
a whole breadth of my gown–
And when gowns are dyed, I needn’t say, it’s
much better done up in town.
As for country fare, the first morning I came I
heard such a shrill piece of work!
And ever since–and it’s ten days ago–we’ve lived
upon nothing but pork;
One Sunday except, and then I turn’d sick, a
plague take all countrified cooks!
Why didn’t they tell me, before I had dined, they
made pigeon pies of the rooks?
Then the gooseberry wine, tho’ it’s pleasant when
up, it doesn’t agree when it’s down,
But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to
look for champagne out of town!
To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best
when he started this pastoral plan,
And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she
teaches me all that she can,
Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams,
but I’m sure that I never shall learn,
And I’ve fetched more back-ache than butter as
yet by chumping away at the churn;
But in making hay, tho’ it’s tanning work, I
found it more easy to make,
But it tries one’s legs, and no great relief when
you’re tired to sit down on the rake.
I’d a country dance too at harvest home, with a
regular country clown,
But, Lord! they don’t hug one round the waist
and give one such smacks in town!
Then I’ve tried to make friends with the birds
and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
I’m always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I
can’t even please the pigs.
The very hens pick holes in my hands when I
grope for the new-laid eggs,
And the gander comes hissing out of the pond
on purpose to flap at my legs.
I’ve been bump’d in a ditch by the cow without
horns, and the old sow trampled me down,
The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts–but
they’re kept in cages in town!
Another thing is the nasty dogs–thro’ the village
I hardly can stir
Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call
off a barking cur;
And now you would swear all the dogs in the
place were set on to hunt me down,
But neither the brutes nor the people I think are
as civilly bred as in town.
Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake,
and all in a tremble of fright,
But instead of a family murder it proved an owl
that flies screeching at night.
Then there’s plenty of ricks and stacks all
about, and I can’t help dreaming of Swing–
In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the
most happiest thing;
For besides all the troubles I’ve mentioned before
as endur’d for rurality’s sake,
I’ve been stung by the bees, and I’ve set among
ants, and once–ugh! I trod on a snake!
And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I’ve
got a particular skin,
I do think it’s the gnats coming out of the ponds
that drives the poor suicides in!
And after all an’t there new-laid eggs to be had
upon Holborn Hill?
And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles’s, and fresh
butter wherever you will?
And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread
quite rustical-like and brown?
So one isn’t so very uncountrified in the very
heart of the town.
Howsomever my mind’s made up, and although
I’m sure cousin Giles will be vext,
I mean to book me an inside place up to town
upon Saturday next,
And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall
be at the Old Bell and Crown,
And perhaps I may come to the country again,
when London is all burnt down!