Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Mizie's Complaint

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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 divineWhy I am left to sit and pine;While every other girl I knowGoes 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 showLads have admired me, oh! how nice!But they have never asked my price.
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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.

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