Page 13 - Poetry-Whimsy

I saw a heap of clothes neglected lie,
Nor at the tub, nor at the hedge was she.

Returning home I saw upon the ground
An empty basket, with a letter tied,
I broke the seal, and to my anguish found
That morning Biddy Mulligan had died!

Adieu ye spotless vests of white Marseilles,
So white ye gave me pleasure to put on,
Ye snowy-bosomed shirts a long farewell—
Alas! poor Biddy’s “occupation’s gone.”

Not all the symmetry of Hosbach’s suits,
Nor hats by Morgan exquisitely glossed,
Nor Asken’s ties, nor Parker’s jetty boots,
Console me for the treasure I have lost.

Oh! Mulligan, thy shirts perfection were,
Now I ne’er put one on but feeling pain,
And closing up my waistcoat in despair
Feel I can never show their like again.

Death’s ruthless hand hath laid thee out at last,
Thy mangling’s done, his is a mangling trade,
Thou’rt bleaching in the chilly northern blast,
Pale as the shirts o’er which thy fingers stray’d.

Nymphs of the tomb! attend the fun’ral throng,
Plant mangle wurtzel* near where she is laid,
And scatter snow-drops as ye pass along,
Fit emblems of the whiteness of her trade.

The Epitaph
Let no bombastic verse be carv’d in stone,
No high-flown eulogy, no flatt’ring trope,
Be then the plain inscription—this alone—
“She never yet was badly off for soap.”

*mangel wurzel, aka mangold or fodder beet

— Rev. Charles Tisdall (Peterson’s, 1858)

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