Mary the Cook-Maid's Letter to Dr. Sheridan. 1723
Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head!You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth;I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shameFor a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name.Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin;And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin:He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your wholebody:My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy.And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose:Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober:Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wickedcollege.You say you will eat grass on his grave: a Christian eat grass!Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass:But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye;Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a truestory:And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary.Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil:I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil.Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here;I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year.And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking:Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;)My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school--I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool.Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of aleHe would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail.And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better.Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes fromprayers:And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs;Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand;And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command,
Words in this poem
- troth n.
- Belief; faith; fidelity. [A variant of truth. See Truth.]
- knave n.
- A boy; especially, a boy servant. Wyclif. [OE., boy, servant, knave, AS. cnafa boy, youth; cf. AS. cnapa boy, youth, D. kna, G. knabe boy, knappe esquire, Icel. knapi, Sw. knape esquire, knäfvel knave.]
- personable a.
- Having a well-formed body, or person; graceful; comely; of good appearance; presentable; as, a personable man or woman.
- fain v. t.
- To be glad ; to wish or desire.
- gentlefolks n.
- Persons of gentle or good family and breeding. Etym: [Generally in the United States in the plural form.]
- clout n.
- A cloth; a piece of cloth or leather; a patch; a rag. [AS. clut a little cloth, piece of metal; cf. Sw. klut, Icel. klutr a kerchief, or W. clwt a clout, Gael. clud.]
- scrawl v. t.
- To draw or mark awkwardly and irregularly; to write hastily and carelessly; to scratch; to scribble; as, to scrawl a letter. [Probably corrupted from scrabble.]
- whereof adv.
- Of which; of whom; formerly, also, with which; -- used relatively.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Mary the Cook-Maid's Letter to Dr. Sheridan. 1723 is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2, Project Gutenberg ebook #13621; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Jonathan Swift, Mary the Cook-Maid's Letter to Dr. Sheridan. 1723, in Poems, Volume II (1710–1745), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #13621, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/swift-poems/mary-the-cook-maid-s-letter-to-dr-sheridan-1723.html, id L09419.
Form and metre
Mary the Cook-Maid's Letter to Dr. Sheridan. 1723 is 42 lines in a single stanza. 88% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 14.1 syllables. 13 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 14% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AA--BBCC-DDEEFF---GGH--H---IIJJKKLLMM-NNOO headA · bredA · cloth · troth · shameB · nameB · sinC · kinC · whole · bodyD · doddyD · excuseE · gooseE · octoberF · soberF · knowledge · wicked · college · grassG · assG · yeH · true · story · iH · mary · devil · civil · hereI · yearI · mockingJ · stockingJ · schoolK · foolK · aleL · tailL · letterM · betterM · from · prayersN · stairsN · handO · commandO
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! | 18 | ··/···˘/˘···/˘···· |
| You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. | 15 | ··/˘/˘···/˘···· |
| I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; | 13 | ······˘/····· |
| I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. | 13 | ·····/˘······ |
| Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame | 16 | ····/˘···/˘/˘··· |
| For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. | 17 | ··/˘···/˘········ |
| Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; | 15 | ····/˘/˘······· |
| And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: | 18 | ····/˘············ |
| He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole | 17 | ···/˘··/˘/˘······ |
| body: | 2 | /˘ |
| My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy. | 18 | ·/˘··/˘····/˘·/˘·· |
| And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, | 13 | ···········˘/ |
| Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: | 14 | ···/˘···/˘···· |
| Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, | 17 | ·········/˘···˘/˘ |
| And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: | 13 | ··/········/˘ |
| Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, | 15 | ·····/˘·/˘/··/˘ |
| Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked | 15 | ·············/˘ |
| college. | 2 | /˘ |
| You say you will eat grass on his grave: a Christian eat grass! | 14 | ··········/˘·· |
| Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass: | 15 | ····˘/˘/······· |
| But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; | 16 | ·········/˘····· |
| Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true | 15 | ·····/˘···˘/··· |
| story: | 2 | /˘ |
| And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I? | 18 | ·············/˘··· |
| And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. | 13 | ···········/˘ |
| Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: | 15 | /˘·˘··········/ |
| I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. | 17 | ·····/˘········/˘ |
| Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; | 15 | ˘/····//˘······ |
| I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. | 16 | ·˘/˘····/˘······ |
| And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: | 15 | ·/˘·····/·/˘·/˘ |
| Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) | 16 | /˘·······/˘·/˘/˘ |
| My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- | 14 | ·/˘·····/˘···· |
| I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. | 15 | ···/˘·········· |
| Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale | 13 | /˘····/˘····· |
| He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. | 18 | ·····//˘·········· |
| And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; | 15 | ·······/˘·˘/·/˘ |
| For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better. | 17 | ·········/˘/˘··/˘ |
| Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from | 16 | ············/˘·· |
| prayers: | 1 | · |
| And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; | 14 | ··········/˘·· |
| Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; | 17 | ········/˘····/˘· |
| And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, | 16 | ···˘/··/˘··/˘·˘/ |
Notes from the edition 1
The notes to the Poems of Jonathan Swift, Volume II (Project Gutenberg #13621).
- Line 19 See ante, p. 349.--W.E.B.
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