BETSEY BOBBIT: HER POEM.

Josiah came in, t’other day, from the postoffice; and he says, says he, throwin’ down the “Weekly Gimlet:”

“Here’s old Betsey Bobbit been a makin’ a fool of herself agin. Just read this stuff that she calls a pome.”

I took the newspaper, and sot down by the winder, to get more light, for my eyes ain’t as good as when I was a gal, and this is what I read:

I WISH I WAS A WIDDER,BY BETSEY BOBBIT.Oh, “Gimlet,” back again I floatWith broken wings, a weary bard;I cannot write as once I wrote,I have to work so very hard.So hard my lot, so tossed about,My muse is fairly tuckered out.My muse aforesaid, once hath flown,But now her back is broke, and breast;And yet she fain would crumple downOn “Gimlet” pages she would rest;And sing plain words as there she’s sotHaply they’ll rhyme, and haply notI spake plain words in former days,No guile I showed, clear was my plan;My gole it matrimony was.My earthly aim it was a man.I gained my man. I won my gole.Alas, I feel not as I fole.Yes, ringing through my maiden thoughtThis clear voice rose, “oh come up higher”To speak plain truth with cander fraught,To married be, was my desire.Now sweeter still this lot doth seemTo be a widder is my theme.For toil hath claimed me for her own,In wedlock I have found no ease;I’ve cleaned and washed for neighbors roundAnd took my pay in beans and pease;In boiling sap no rest I tookOr husking corn in barn or stook.Or picking wool from house to house,White-washing, painting, papering,In stretching carpets, boiling souse,E’en picking hops it hath a stingFor spiders there assembled be,Mosqueetoes, bugs, and et ceteree.I have to work, oh! very hard;Old Toil, I know your breadth, and length.I’m tired to death; and in one wordI have to work beyond my strength,And mortal men are very toughTo get along with—nasty, rough.Yes, tribulation’s doomed to herWho weds a man, without no doubtIn peace a man is singulerHis ways, they are past finding out,And oh! the wrath of mortal malesTo paint their ire, earth’s language fails.And thirteen children in our homeTheir buttons rend, their clothes they burst,Much bread and such do they consume,Of children they do seem the worst;And Simon and I do disagree,He’s prone to sin continualee.He horrors has, he oft doth kick,He prances, yells, he will not work,Sometimes I think he is too sick;Sometimes I think he tries to shirk,But ’tis hard for her in either caseWho B Bobbit was in happier days.Happier? Away! Such things I spurn,I count it true from spring to fall’Tis “better to be wed and groanThan never to be wed at all.”I’d work my hands down to the boneRather than rest, a maiden lone.This truth I cannot, will not shirk,I feel it when I sorrow most,I’d rather break my back with workAnd haggard look as any ghost—Rather than lonely vigils keepI’d wed, and sigh, and groan, and weep.Yes, I can say, though tears fall quick,Can say while briny tear-drops start,I’d rather wed a crooked stickThan never wed no stick at all.Rather than laughed at be as of yoreI’d rather laugh myself no more.I’d rather go half-clad and starvedAnd mops and dish-cloths madly waveThan have the words B Bobbit carvedOn headstone rising o’er my graveProud thought, now when that stun is risen,’Twill bear two names, mine and hisen.Methinks ’twould colder make the stunIf but one name, the name of sheShould linger there alone, alone,How different when the name of heDoes also deck the funeral urnTwo wedded names, his name and hurn.And sweeter yet, oh! blessed lotOh! state most dignified and blestTo be a widder calmly sotAnd have both dignity and rest.Oh, Simon, strangely sweet ’twould beTo be a widder unto thee.The warfare past, the horrors done,With maiden ease and pride of wife,The dignity of wedded one,The calm and peace of single life;Oh strangely sweet this lot doth seem,A female widder is my theme.I would not hurt a hair of he,Yet did he from earth’s toils escapeI could most reconciled beCould sweetly mourn e’en without crapeCould say without a pang of painThat Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain.I’ve told the plain tale of my woes,With no deceit or language vain,Have told whereon my hopes are roseHave sung my mournful song of pain.And now e’en I will end my taleI’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail.

I WISH I WAS A WIDDER,

BY BETSEY BOBBIT.

Oh, “Gimlet,” back again I floatWith broken wings, a weary bard;I cannot write as once I wrote,I have to work so very hard.So hard my lot, so tossed about,My muse is fairly tuckered out.

Oh, “Gimlet,” back again I float

With broken wings, a weary bard;

I cannot write as once I wrote,

I have to work so very hard.

So hard my lot, so tossed about,

My muse is fairly tuckered out.

My muse aforesaid, once hath flown,But now her back is broke, and breast;And yet she fain would crumple downOn “Gimlet” pages she would rest;And sing plain words as there she’s sotHaply they’ll rhyme, and haply not

My muse aforesaid, once hath flown,

But now her back is broke, and breast;

And yet she fain would crumple down

On “Gimlet” pages she would rest;

And sing plain words as there she’s sot

Haply they’ll rhyme, and haply not

I spake plain words in former days,No guile I showed, clear was my plan;My gole it matrimony was.My earthly aim it was a man.I gained my man. I won my gole.Alas, I feel not as I fole.

I spake plain words in former days,

No guile I showed, clear was my plan;

My gole it matrimony was.

My earthly aim it was a man.

I gained my man. I won my gole.

Alas, I feel not as I fole.

Yes, ringing through my maiden thoughtThis clear voice rose, “oh come up higher”To speak plain truth with cander fraught,To married be, was my desire.Now sweeter still this lot doth seemTo be a widder is my theme.

Yes, ringing through my maiden thought

This clear voice rose, “oh come up higher”

To speak plain truth with cander fraught,

To married be, was my desire.

Now sweeter still this lot doth seem

To be a widder is my theme.

For toil hath claimed me for her own,In wedlock I have found no ease;I’ve cleaned and washed for neighbors roundAnd took my pay in beans and pease;In boiling sap no rest I tookOr husking corn in barn or stook.

For toil hath claimed me for her own,

In wedlock I have found no ease;

I’ve cleaned and washed for neighbors round

And took my pay in beans and pease;

In boiling sap no rest I took

Or husking corn in barn or stook.

Or picking wool from house to house,White-washing, painting, papering,In stretching carpets, boiling souse,E’en picking hops it hath a stingFor spiders there assembled be,Mosqueetoes, bugs, and et ceteree.

Or picking wool from house to house,

White-washing, painting, papering,

In stretching carpets, boiling souse,

E’en picking hops it hath a sting

For spiders there assembled be,

Mosqueetoes, bugs, and et ceteree.

I have to work, oh! very hard;Old Toil, I know your breadth, and length.I’m tired to death; and in one wordI have to work beyond my strength,And mortal men are very toughTo get along with—nasty, rough.

I have to work, oh! very hard;

Old Toil, I know your breadth, and length.

I’m tired to death; and in one word

I have to work beyond my strength,

And mortal men are very tough

To get along with—nasty, rough.

Yes, tribulation’s doomed to herWho weds a man, without no doubtIn peace a man is singulerHis ways, they are past finding out,And oh! the wrath of mortal malesTo paint their ire, earth’s language fails.

Yes, tribulation’s doomed to her

Who weds a man, without no doubt

In peace a man is singuler

His ways, they are past finding out,

And oh! the wrath of mortal males

To paint their ire, earth’s language fails.

And thirteen children in our homeTheir buttons rend, their clothes they burst,Much bread and such do they consume,Of children they do seem the worst;And Simon and I do disagree,He’s prone to sin continualee.

And thirteen children in our home

Their buttons rend, their clothes they burst,

Much bread and such do they consume,

Of children they do seem the worst;

And Simon and I do disagree,

He’s prone to sin continualee.

He horrors has, he oft doth kick,He prances, yells, he will not work,Sometimes I think he is too sick;Sometimes I think he tries to shirk,But ’tis hard for her in either caseWho B Bobbit was in happier days.

He horrors has, he oft doth kick,

He prances, yells, he will not work,

Sometimes I think he is too sick;

Sometimes I think he tries to shirk,

But ’tis hard for her in either case

Who B Bobbit was in happier days.

Happier? Away! Such things I spurn,I count it true from spring to fall’Tis “better to be wed and groanThan never to be wed at all.”I’d work my hands down to the boneRather than rest, a maiden lone.

Happier? Away! Such things I spurn,

I count it true from spring to fall

’Tis “better to be wed and groan

Than never to be wed at all.”

I’d work my hands down to the bone

Rather than rest, a maiden lone.

This truth I cannot, will not shirk,I feel it when I sorrow most,I’d rather break my back with workAnd haggard look as any ghost—Rather than lonely vigils keepI’d wed, and sigh, and groan, and weep.

This truth I cannot, will not shirk,

I feel it when I sorrow most,

I’d rather break my back with work

And haggard look as any ghost—

Rather than lonely vigils keep

I’d wed, and sigh, and groan, and weep.

Yes, I can say, though tears fall quick,Can say while briny tear-drops start,I’d rather wed a crooked stickThan never wed no stick at all.Rather than laughed at be as of yoreI’d rather laugh myself no more.

Yes, I can say, though tears fall quick,

Can say while briny tear-drops start,

I’d rather wed a crooked stick

Than never wed no stick at all.

Rather than laughed at be as of yore

I’d rather laugh myself no more.

I’d rather go half-clad and starvedAnd mops and dish-cloths madly waveThan have the words B Bobbit carvedOn headstone rising o’er my graveProud thought, now when that stun is risen,’Twill bear two names, mine and hisen.

I’d rather go half-clad and starved

And mops and dish-cloths madly wave

Than have the words B Bobbit carved

On headstone rising o’er my grave

Proud thought, now when that stun is risen,

’Twill bear two names, mine and hisen.

Methinks ’twould colder make the stunIf but one name, the name of sheShould linger there alone, alone,How different when the name of heDoes also deck the funeral urnTwo wedded names, his name and hurn.

Methinks ’twould colder make the stun

If but one name, the name of she

Should linger there alone, alone,

How different when the name of he

Does also deck the funeral urn

Two wedded names, his name and hurn.

And sweeter yet, oh! blessed lotOh! state most dignified and blestTo be a widder calmly sotAnd have both dignity and rest.Oh, Simon, strangely sweet ’twould beTo be a widder unto thee.

And sweeter yet, oh! blessed lot

Oh! state most dignified and blest

To be a widder calmly sot

And have both dignity and rest.

Oh, Simon, strangely sweet ’twould be

To be a widder unto thee.

The warfare past, the horrors done,With maiden ease and pride of wife,The dignity of wedded one,The calm and peace of single life;Oh strangely sweet this lot doth seem,A female widder is my theme.

The warfare past, the horrors done,

With maiden ease and pride of wife,

The dignity of wedded one,

The calm and peace of single life;

Oh strangely sweet this lot doth seem,

A female widder is my theme.

I would not hurt a hair of he,Yet did he from earth’s toils escapeI could most reconciled beCould sweetly mourn e’en without crapeCould say without a pang of painThat Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain.

I would not hurt a hair of he,

Yet did he from earth’s toils escape

I could most reconciled be

Could sweetly mourn e’en without crape

Could say without a pang of pain

That Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain.

I’ve told the plain tale of my woes,With no deceit or language vain,Have told whereon my hopes are roseHave sung my mournful song of pain.And now e’en I will end my taleI’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail.

I’ve told the plain tale of my woes,

With no deceit or language vain,

Have told whereon my hopes are rose

Have sung my mournful song of pain.

And now e’en I will end my tale

I’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail.

“Wall, I call it foolish stuff,” I said, when I had finished. “Though, if I was to measure ’em with a yardstick, the lines might come out pretty nigh an equal length, and so I s’pose it would be called poetry.”

At any rate, I have made a practice, ever since, of callin’ it so; for I am one that despises envy and jealousy amongst sister authoresses. No, you never ketch me at it; I would sooner help ’em up the ladder than upset ’em, and it is ever my practice so to do. But truth must be spoke if subjects are brung up. Uronious views must be condemnedby Warriors of the Right, whether ladders be upset, or stand firm, poetesses also.

I felt that this poetry attacked a tender subject, a subject dearer to me than all the world besides, the subject of Josiah. Josiah is a man.

And I say it, and I say it plain that men hain’t no such creeters as he tries to make out they be. Men are first-rate creeters in lots of things, and as good as wimmen any day of the week.

Of course, I agree with Betsy that husbands are tryin’ in lots of things; they need a firm hand to the hellum to guide ’em along through the tempestuous wave of married life, and get along with ’em. They are lots of trouble, and then I think they pay after all. Why, I wouldn’t swap my Josiah for the best house and lot in Janesville, or the crown of the Widder Albert. I love Josiah Allen. And I don’t know but the very trouble he has caused me makes me cling closer to him; you know the harder a horse’s head beats and thrashes against burdock burs, the tighter the burdocks will cling to its mane. Josiah makes me sights of trouble, but I cling to him closely.

I admit that men are curious creeters and tegus creeters, a good deal of the time. But then agin, so be wimmen, just as tegus, and I don’t know but teguser! I believe my soul, if I had got to be born again, I had almost as lives be born a man as a woman.

No, I don’t think one sect ort to boast much over the other one. They are both about equally foolish and disagreeable, and both have their goodness and nobilities. And both ort to have their rights. Now I haint one to set up and say men hadn’t ort to vote, that they don’t know enough, and hain’t good enough, and so forth, and so on. No, you don’t ketch me at it. I am one that stands up for justice and reason.

Now, the other day a wild-eyed woman with short hair, who goes round lecturin’ on wimmen’s rights, came to see me, a tryin’ to inviggle me into a plot to keep men from votin’. Says she, “The time is drawin’ near, when wimmen are a goin’ to vote, without no doubt.”

“Amen!” says I, “I can say amen to that with my hull heart and soul.”

“And then,” says she, “when we get the staff in our own hands less we wimmen all put in together and try to keep men from votin’.”

“Never!” says I. “Never! will you get me into such a scrape as that.” Says I, “men have jest exactly as good a right to vote as wimmen have. They are condemned, and protected, and controlled by the same laws that wimmen are, and so of course are equally interested in makin’ ’em. You needn’t try to inviggle me into no plot to keep men from votin’, for justice is ever my theme, and also Josiah.”

Says she, bitterly, “I’d love to make these miserable sneaks try it once and see how they would like it, to have to spend their property and be hauled round, and hung by laws they hadn’t no hand in makin’.”

But I still say with marble firmness, “men has jest as good a right to vote as wimmen have. And you needn’t try to inviggle me into no such plans, for I won’t be inviggled.”

And so she stopped invigglin, and went off.

And then agin in Betsy’s poetry (though as a neighbor, and a female authoress, I never would speak a word against it, and what I say, I say as a Warrior, and would wish to be so took) I would say in kindness that Betsy sot out in married life expectin’ too much. Now, she didn’t marry in the right way, and so she ought to have expected tougher times than the usual run of married females ort to expect, more than the ordinary tribulations of matrimony.

And it won’t do to expect too much in this world anyway. If you can only bring your lives down to it, it is a sight better to expect nothing, and then you won’t be disappointed if you get it, as you most probably will. And if you get something, it will be a joyful surprise to you. But there are few indeed who has ever sot down on this calm hite of filosify.

Folks expect too much. As many, and many times as their hopes has proved to be uronious, they think, well now, if I only had that certain thing, or was in that certain place, I should be happy. But they haint. They find when they reach that certain gole and have climbed up and sot down on it, they’ll find that somebody has got onto the gole before ’em, and is there a settin’ on it. No matter how spry anybody may be, they’ll find that Sorrow can climb faster than they can, and can set down on goles quicker.

It haint no matter how easy a seat anybody sets down in, they’ll find that they’ll have to hunch along, and let Disappointment set down with ’em, and Anxiety, and Weariness, and et ceteree, et ceteree.

Now, the scholar, or the literatoor, or writer, thinks if he can only stand up on that certain hite of scientific discovery, or Akkropolis of literatoor, he will be happy; for he will know all that he cares about, and will have all the fame he wants to. But when he gets up there, he’ll see plain, for the higher he riz above the mists of ignorance that floats ’round the lower lands, the clearer his vision, and he will see another peek right ahead of him steeper and loftier and icier than the last, and so on ad infinitum, ad infinity. And if it is literatoor, he’ll see somebody that’s got higher, or thinks he has, or he’ll find some critick that says he hasn’t done much, and Shakespeare did better.

Just as it was with old Mrs. Peedick, our present Mrs.Peedick’s mother-in-law, she said, she told me with her own lips, that she knew she should be happy when she got a glass butter-dish, but she said she wasn’t; she told me with her own lips, that jest as quick as she got that she wanted a sugar-bowl, for the Druffels had sugar-bowls, and why shouldn’t she?

The lover thinks, when he can once claim his sweetheart, call her his own, he will be blessed and content; but he hain’t. No matter how well he loves her, no matter how fond she is of him, and how blessed they are in each other’s love, the haunting fear must always rack his soul, the horrible fear be there, of seeing her slip away from him altogether. That in place of her warm, beating heart, whose every throb is full of love for him, will be only her vacant place, and instead of the tender sweetness of her voice, the everlasting silence of Eternity.

The little ones that cling to our knees, that pray beside us at bed-time, and the patter of whose feet is such music to us—they go, too, and we no more feel their kisses, or hear their tiny voices. Every day, every hour, we are losing something, that we called our own.

You see we don’t own much of anything in this world. It’s curious, but so it is. And what we call our own, don’t belong to us; not at all. That is one of the things that makes this such an extremely curious world to live in. Yes, we are situated extremely curious, as much so as the robins and swallows who build their nests on the swaying forest boughs.

We smile at the robin, with our wise, amused pity, who builds her tiny nest, with such laborious care, high up, out on the waving tree-top, only to be blown away by the chilly autumn winds. But are not our homes, the sweetest homes of our tenderest love, built upon just as insecure foundations, hanging over more mysterious depths? Rocked toand fro, swept to their ruin by a breath of the Unknown? Our dreams, and hopes, and ambitions, what are they all but the sticks and straws that we weave about our frail nests, only to be blown away forever?

And when our December comes, are not we too swept away, poor voyagers, over pathless wastes? YetHe, who has provided a balmy South, as a refuge for the summer birds, to which they fly, intuitively, with blind hope and trust—has notHeprepared likewise a shelter for us, one where we may fulfil our deathless longings, meet the “loved and lost,” and realize our soul’s dearest dreams? Yes, over the lonely way, over the untried fields of the future, ay, even over the Unknown Sea, which they callDeath, even over that,Hewill guide us safely, to a haven, a home, immortal, “not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens”.

But I am eppisodin!

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