Elizabeth Hands

Elizabeth Hands
On An Unsociable Family
O what a strange parcel of creatures are we,
Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree;
We all are alone, though at home altogether,
Except to the fire constrained by the weather;
Then one says, ‘’Tis cold’, which we all of us know,
And with unanimity answer, ‘’Tis so’:
With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,
And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;
Then quickly, preceded by silence profound,
A yawn epidemical catches around:
Like social companions we never fall out,
Nor ever care what one another’s about;
To comfort each other is never our plan,
For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.
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Perplexity: A Poem
Ye tender young virgins attend to my lay,
My heart is divided in twain;
My Collin is beautiful, witty, and gay,
And Damon’s a kind-hearted swain.

Whenever my lovely young Collin I meet,
What pleasures arise in my breast;
The dear gentle swain looks so charming and sweet,
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A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
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The Widower’s Courtship
Roger a doleful widower,
Full eighteen weeks had been,
When he, to meet the milk-maid Nell
Came smiling o’er the green.

Blithe as a lad of seventeen,
He thus accosted Nell;
Give me your pail, I’ll carry it
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