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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.