Classic Poem

My old man is a tiresome knave
& moneys all his cry
He makes his poor wife quite a slave
I wish he would but die
Id wear my frills & gown of stuff
& for a young[er] try
Who without me might earn enough
To keep himself & I

But my sour knave is old & lame
& earns but scanty pay
So aye hes at his slaving dame
To labour night & day
On my wheel spool he makes a mark
To see how much I spin
& when he cometh home at dark
What a rage the knave is in

He vents his spleen on dog & cat
Who instant seek the door
& swears hell burn my wheel [&] that
If I will work no more
So forced I am my wheel to trim
To calm away the dotards ire
& work till I could like with him
To lay it on the fire

I s[c]arce dare stop to pinch my snuff
Or tye my broken thread
Till [he] has thought Ive done enough
Then off he bids to bed
Where groaning till his toes be warm
Or mutterd prayers are said
There drops his head upon his arm
& sleeps as he wer dead

I wish nought untimely may end him
Altho hes so testy & old
But the Lord order death to befriend him
& lay him to sleep in the mould
My best cloaths shall rot in his coffers
Ere I dress till Im single agen
When Ill set up my cap at young offers
& — heaven take all the old men