Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/255

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Hartford, April, 1843.

the Lady of Rose-Mount, I've long wished to pay Such thanks as were due for her musical lay, But many a care, with importunate mien, Would thrust itself me and my lyre between; And lastly, the hydra of house-cleaning came, With dripping fingers, and cheeks of flame; Pictures, and vases, and flower-pots fled, At her flashing eye, and her frown of dread, While tubs and brushes, with Vandal haste, Like a mob of Chartists, their betters displaced, And she at the head of that motley crowd, A brandished broom for her sceptre proud, Held all in an uproar, from sun to sun, Then went off in a rage, ere her work was done. Keep clear of her, dearest, as long as you can, She's a terror, in sooth, both to woman and man, And husbands, especially, quake when they see Their sanctums exposed to her ministry.