Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Mizie's Complaint

Mizie's Complaint.

It's very hard, you must admit,
That at the needle I must sit,
And stitch away from day to day,
And not a beau will come my way.

The reason I can not divine
Why I am left to sit and pine;
While every other girl I know
Goes sporting every night her beau.

It's not my fault, that I am sure;
I'm not bad tempered, sad nor sour;
But always cheerful and well pleased,
Though I am sometimes sadly teased.

I'm sure I'd keep my house as clean,
As Mary Rae or Maggie Cheyne,
Who married were the other day,
And why not I, as well as they?

And I could cook a dinner, too,
Yes, better far than they can do;
And plan and make old things look well,
That they among their rags would sell.

I'm not a beauty, that I know,
Nor ugly either; I can show
Lads have admired me, oh! how nice!
But they have never asked my price.

I'm just about a medium size,
Black hair I have, and large dark eyes;
And though some say that I am vain,
I never dress but very plain.

With all these qualities combined,
A husband I must surely find;
For an old maid I will not be,
Although I'm nearly twenty-three.

So I my case make known to you;
For this is all that I can do;
I hope some one will gallant be,
And come at once and marry me.

And mind I am not ill to please,
I do not wish for wealth or ease;
A husband sober, good, and kind,
Is all that I would wish to find.

And now I'll tell you where I dwell—
It's very near the Corbie Well,
I'm sure the house you must have seen;
And mind to ask for Mizie Green.