Hints to servants: being a poetical and modernised version of Dean Swift's celebrated "Directions to servants;" In Which Something Is Added to the Original Text, but Those Passages Are Omitted Which Cannot with Propriety Be Read Aloud in a Kitchen

Thus far our Dean,--but happier times Now wait on bolder, deadlier crimes, When wisdom mourns o'er wise restraints, And murd'rers serve for martyred saints. With laws so changed, a realm's disgrace Springs from a pot-boy 'out of place;' When all but starts the maudlin tear, For sufferings of a Courvoisier; And Pity grasps the hand imbrued In a confiding master's blood! When the most hardened knave has hope Of all things needful--but a rope! And nought excites the mortal pang, Save to behold a felon hang. And why? Howe'er the de'il may angle, In his 'right mind' no man would dangle; Or, 'Monomania' far away, Have a clear right to Bot'ny Bay; For I've no trouble in believing A 'Monomania' for thieving! What fee, then, shall that Counsel grace, Who'll fairly make out such a 'case?' Can such 'opinion' e'er be bought? I'm quite 'transported' at the thought! Let sober Judges, then, give way, And let Mad-doctors have the sway! Let all things (for a time) be shown As only right when upside down! Yet while these 'epochs' intervene, Well may we cry, "GOD" save our Queen! Now call me Whig, or call me Tory, Wise rulers all, I yet implore ye, Some better safeguard may be known Both for the people and the throne; For though no Radical, most sure I grudge the Hangman's sinecure!

THE HOUSEKEEPER.

A FAV'RITE Footman you must have, Always the most tit-bits to save; Watchful for something 'none the worse,' Or untouch'd from the second course, It doesn't matter what precisely,-- You and the Steward 'cook it nicely.'

THE CHAMBERMAID.

YOU'VE more importance than the Housemaid, As living where there's greater fuss made,-- A vastly more important clatter Than where they only keep the latter. You've nought to do but "up stairs clamber, Down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;" Take vails of all the visitors, And chat with all inquisitors; And whilst a secret's left remaining, You're always vastly entertaining. The Coachman is your usual lover, Till you can coax the Footman over; Who sometimes helps you in fatigue, But always in a nice intrigue. The worst mishap that comes to pass Is when you break a looking-glass; For could invention stretch like leather, You ne'er can 'jine the bits together.' But still excuses may be had,-- I'll tell you one that 'shan't be bad;' The girl, you'll say, deserved a pension, Although it failed, for the invention. The glass she smashes all to shivers, And frets and fumes, and quakes and quivers To think--whichever way to view it-- How in the world should she 'git through it.' Th' emergency was sudden, dreadful, And needed brains more than a headfull: 'Howsever,' calling up her wits, (Instead of falling into fits,) She lock'd the door; then fetch'd up straight A stone of half-a-hundred weight, Quick as if followed by Old Scratch, And breaks a pane of glass 'to match.' The stone laid down beneath the shelf, (More softly than if down itself,) She goes, with just her general airs, About her general affairs. It takes--precisely as she wish'd; And yet at last the poor girl's dish'd. When all seemed well,--at least quite fairish, In pops the Parson of the parish,-- Talks of the height, the situation, The weight, the laws of gravitation; Prates law like any Romilly, And ends with a fine homily; Until, at last, I grieve to say, He gets the poor girl turn'd away. Still 'tis not oft that female tactics Are set aside by mathematics; Nor left to busy-bodies whether A story fails or hangs together. So then, as Kitchener would say, "To devil it a diff'rent way," Swear that, amidst a strange perfume, (Like brimstone, filling all the room,) You felt a flash of lightning burn you, And then, before you'd time to turn you, Or wake at all from the surprise, You'd lost the use of both your eyes! And in that state, midst horrid clatters, Saw the glass lying all in shatters. 'Another way:'--it wanted dusting, And you to set it right were bursting; When lo! the moisture of the 'hair' Had left the plate completely bare, So that it parted from the wall Without the 'leastest' touch at all. And that's--though they may think it lame-- The best excuse that you can frame. I can't invent but one more bolsterer,-- To cut the cord, and curse th' upholsterer: But for a thumping taradiddle, To no one e'er play second fiddle. Now, as for little trifling matters, As breaking 'chayney' cups and platters, Or letting a large punch-bowl fall,-- Why never vex yourself at all. "You're not surpris'd, since it appears As it's been crack'd for years and years; And as you took it off the shelf, It came in 'three halves' quite itself: It's no use going into fits, To prove the fact--you've saved the bits!" Lying is, doubtless, half the trade Of ev'ry clever Chambermaid; Though yet it seems the chiefest sleight To lie, and yet appear upright. But one thing more, and then you've sped,-- Get your name up, then lie in bed!

THE PORTER.

IF a great Minister of State Your master be, then guard the gate From all but such as teem with news To suit his honour's party views: You judging kindly and genteelly, Those mostly such who 'tip' most freely.

THE HOUSEMAID.

FROM all the rest your office varies, Is so exempt from pert vagaries, I cease to write, as cease to think,-- You cost me scarce one dip of ink. At least, thanks to the 'march of Mind,' (In which so few now lag behind,) My author's words, if e'er so true, Are really much too coarse for you. Fain would I yield all his jocoseness, And all his wit without his grossness. Thus, where our Dean seems most in rapture, I leave out nearly half a chapter; Checking, in short, his worst inventions, To 'carry out' his best intentions. In lieu of lying, graces, airs, Leave mops and pails upon the stairs; And if some slave break both his shins, What then care you?--why, just two pins!

THE STEWARD.

THERE is no servant like the Steward, For letting lordships go to leeward; And I ne'er knew of one so thorough, As he who 'served' Lord Peterborough; And so, for ever, made that station A perfect personification Of every virtue upon earth, That can befriend a man of birth. He pulled his Lordship's mansion down,-- One of the handsomest in town; He sold the bricks, the floors and stairs, And charged my Lord for the repairs: Then, to surpass the sweets of honey, He lent his Lordship his own money! I spare you more advice, the rather, Thinking you cannot well go farther Than keep, in every thing you do, Your Master's 'interest' still in view.

THE GROOM.

EACH pot of ale (who'd ever think it, Except yourself the while you drink it? And thinking so, drink all the faster) Tells for the credit of your Master. I'm speaking now, as on a journey You act by way of his attorney; Through whom smith, saddler,--half the county Participate his worship's bounty. You are the herald of his worth, His vast estates, 'amazing birth!' You've but one way to show your sense, While unrestricted for expense, So ev'ry art and method try To make his honour's money fly. Your duty 'tis, beyond a doubt, To turn the inn quite inside out; Give cooks and ostlers full commission, Put each man Jack in requisition,

Although you hav'n't time to deal With aught that can be call'd a meal. Be sure, at every town you stop at, To choose those inns to take a drop at, Where you're respected all the more From having made a splash before; Where all your pranks they understand, And pay their homage cap in hand; Furnish your wines from the best bins, And outdo all the other inns. So cleverly to think you've got 'em, Your Master's purse can have no bottom! If, when applying for a place, Your Master asks you, to your face, If you be sober, and the rest, Or somewhat giv'n to Hodges' best? Confess you're fond of drinking courses, But "nothing bangs your love of horses." Thus he'll admire your candid way, And trust to all you do and say. Not that you'll do the like by him, Because you chance to suit his whim: The only plan to bring you pelf, Is buying hay and oats yourself; Because you know a way so handy, To turn them into ale and brandy. Further I'll not attempt to mix Myself at all with jockeys' tricks; Or run a race with such as you, Who'll take my hints, and beat me too! For once, then, I'll hold in the reins, Not to be jostled for my pains: The 'burning turf' but brings remorse, And fairly warns me off the course. So rest, and finger still the 'cole,' Groom of the crib!--groom of the stole!

THE COACHMAN.

YOU'RE bound to nothing, strictly speaking, But just to keep the wheels from creaking; And then to drive just slower, faster, To please yourself more than your Master. But teach your horses, when you're toping, The art to stand stock-still and moping. Tell Master that they're getting old, And "one on 'em has got a cold," When at the alehouse you've a call, And not inclined to drive at all. If Master takes a short excursion, Get drunk, and play up 'Mag's diversion;' Pass some deep pit close to the brink, To show you're none the worse for drink; And swear you can't decline 'October,' Or drive quite well if you're quite sober!

THE NURSERY MAID.

LET children always, when they're ill, Both eat and drink whate'er they will; Although 'forbid' by Doctor Diet, 'Twill do 'em good, and keep 'em quiet. They'll love you--all, and take it kind too, To throw their physic out of window: Remember, though, 'tis quite as well To bid the poor things "not to tell." Do for your Mistress just the same, If laid up either sick or lame; And if she 'longs,'--whate'er the food, Engage that it will do her good. But if she goes to whip a child, Declare you're 'druv' distracted, wild; And swear to leave her place you'd 'ruther,' Than live with such a cruel mother!

But don't go far enough to fret her; She'll scold, but love you all the better For taking the 'dear children's part,'-- You've "railly such a tender heart!" Yet when you're flirting in the park, Make 'em stop out till quite pitch dark; And 'if so be as how' they cry, "They'll go to Bogey certain-ly!"

THE DAIRY-MAID.

BE ever putting forth a splutter Of the fatigue of making butter: Even in summer you must learn Always to have a scalding churn. Cream a week old at least desire, And churn close to the kitchen fire. But of your business, still the great art Is,--saving cream for your own sweetheart!

THE WET NURSE.

PERCHANCE, should you the child 'let fall,' Confessing it 'won't do at all;' None can the secret e'er discover, And if it dies, the danger's over. To your own breast confine the bilk, And save--your 'breasteziz' of milk. Wean 'such as live' as soon as may be, Out o' the way of the next baby.

THE LAUNDRESS.

WHEN such a 'fantigue' you have been in, You've with the iron singed the linen; Rub it with whiting, chalk, or flour, For just the space of half an hour: Then washing,--by repeated fags Twill be all right, or--_all in rags_.

THE GOVERNESS.

MY task is now just nearly ended, And you may justly feel offended, To be so low upon the wall, Or placed upon the list at all. No one suspects that you're a glutton, And so you're served with cold boiled mutton; Nor grudged, to aid your mental work, That _luxury_--a silver fork! Of course, you'll show no sort of blindness To such extraordinary kindness. A vulgar person, 'take your davy,' Would have steel prongs, hot chops, and gravy; I'd e'en be charged with platitude, But what I'd show my gratitude! Say that "Miss Laura's too precocious; Jane so inert, Ruth so ferocious, Rose quite an invalid; Miss Liddy So most abominably giddy,-- You can make nothing--maugre raillery, Of any of 'em but--the salary!"