WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.Onesummer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,As she compared the “doings now,” with those whenshewas young.“WhenIwas young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;And only went to singing-school, andsometimesto night meetin’.Andchildrenwere obedientthen; they had no saucy airs;And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.Butnow-a-daysthey know enough, before they know their letters;And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.Young womennowgo kiting round, and looking out for beaux;And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.WhenIwas young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college;And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folksthen.Butnow-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;Andshegoes to the opera, andhehas folks to dine!He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;And what inmyday we calleddebts, are now hislie-abilities!They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—In my day ’twas hiscreditorsto whom we gave our pity.But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”From the Olive Branch.
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.
Onesummer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,As she compared the “doings now,” with those whenshewas young.“WhenIwas young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;And only went to singing-school, andsometimesto night meetin’.Andchildrenwere obedientthen; they had no saucy airs;And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.Butnow-a-daysthey know enough, before they know their letters;And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.Young womennowgo kiting round, and looking out for beaux;And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.WhenIwas young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college;And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folksthen.Butnow-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;Andshegoes to the opera, andhehas folks to dine!He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;And what inmyday we calleddebts, are now hislie-abilities!They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—In my day ’twas hiscreditorsto whom we gave our pity.But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”From the Olive Branch.
Onesummer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,As she compared the “doings now,” with those whenshewas young.“WhenIwas young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;And only went to singing-school, andsometimesto night meetin’.Andchildrenwere obedientthen; they had no saucy airs;And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.Butnow-a-daysthey know enough, before they know their letters;And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.Young womennowgo kiting round, and looking out for beaux;And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.WhenIwas young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college;And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folksthen.Butnow-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;Andshegoes to the opera, andhehas folks to dine!He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;And what inmyday we calleddebts, are now hislie-abilities!They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—In my day ’twas hiscreditorsto whom we gave our pity.But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”From the Olive Branch.
Onesummer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,As she compared the “doings now,” with those whenshewas young.“WhenIwas young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;And only went to singing-school, andsometimesto night meetin’.Andchildrenwere obedientthen; they had no saucy airs;And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.Butnow-a-daysthey know enough, before they know their letters;And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.Young womennowgo kiting round, and looking out for beaux;And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.
Onesummer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,
An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.
The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,
And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.
The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,
As she compared the “doings now,” with those whenshewas young.
“WhenIwas young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;
And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.
They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;
And only went to singing-school, andsometimesto night meetin’.
Andchildrenwere obedientthen; they had no saucy airs;
And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.
Butnow-a-daysthey know enough, before they know their letters;
And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.
Young womennowgo kiting round, and looking out for beaux;
And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.
WhenIwas young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college;And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folksthen.Butnow-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;Andshegoes to the opera, andhehas folks to dine!He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;And what inmyday we calleddebts, are now hislie-abilities!They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—In my day ’twas hiscreditorsto whom we gave our pity.But then, I tell my daughter,Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”
WhenIwas young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,
And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;
And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college;
And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;
They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;
And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.
The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,
And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folksthen.
Butnow-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;
The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;
His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;
Andshegoes to the opera, andhehas folks to dine!
He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;
And what inmyday we calleddebts, are now hislie-abilities!
They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—
In my day ’twas hiscreditorsto whom we gave our pity.
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”
From the Olive Branch.