Poor Marty

WHO will scour the pots and pans,
Now Marty’s gone away?
Who will scald the milking cans
And put the cream away?
Who will wash the goblets tall,
And chiney plates along the wall,
Platters big and platters small,
Never let one crack or fall,
Now Marty’s gone away?
Ding-dong-dell, ding-dong-dell, poor Marty’s gone away.

Who will clean the kitchen sink,
Ringed with grease as black as ink?
Not the Mistress, strict and cold,
Not the Master, meek and old,
Not our Miss in lawn and lace,
White of hand and fair of face.
Nor her sister, Marty’s dear,
Played the harp for her to hear.
(Ever would the poor soul smile,
Rocking on her tired feet
When the harp strings sounded sweet —
Wiping all her goblets clear
To the music of her dear.)
Who will wash the things away,
Wash them three times every day?
Sixty years she never missed
While her hand hung to her wrist,
Never broke a plate or cup.
Who will wash our dishes up,
Now Marty’s gone away?
Ding-dong-dell, ding-dong-dell, poor Marty’s gone away.

Who will start the kitchen fire,
Now Marty’s gone away?
When the house is all but dead,
Maids and mistress fast abed,
Windows rattle, stair steps groan,
Cookstove gray and cold as stone,
And the handle of the door
Froze to make your fingers sore.
Marty she was thin and old,
Little fleshed against the cold.
But she loved the maidies well,
Ever feared abroad to dwell.
All her life she feared to fall
Unto strangers after all,
To abide the poorhouse end.
Love and fear can both befriend.

Who will feed the winter birds,
Now Marty’s gone away?
Snowbirds brown and robins red
Used to flutter round her head,
At the window open wide.
’T was our Mistress’ fantasy
Neither cat nor dog might bide
For poor Marty’s company,
But the birds came through the air
For the crust she had to spare.
Ding-dong-dell, ding-dong-dell, poor Marty’s laid away.

On a moonlit winter night
Marty made her kitchen bright,
Wiped the pot-black from her hand
For before her Lord to stand,
She knew no other way.
No man earthly saw her go,
But she was gone afar we know
Before the break of day.

Mistress rang her silver bell,
Fixed to scold poor Marty well;
Master drummed his pewter pot
For his shaving water hot;
Miss and Missy waited long
Never thinking aught was wrong.
I must give my beasts their corn
With no bite or sup that morn,
For Marty’s gone away.

Little had she here to leave,
Naught to will and none to grieve.
Hire nor wages did she draw
But her keep and bed of straw.
’T was our Mistress’ fantasy
Marty might not trusted be
With fire to warm nor light to see,
In her kitchen loft.
But our Mistress could not bar
Light from moon or light from star,
Or from farther off.

‘Martha,’ said the angel, ‘rise;
Come with me to Paradise.
Never heed thy needy shift,
Hers the shame who gave the gift.
Never hide thy choppy hand;
He, who waits, will understand
When He sees thee. Martha, rise;
Come with me to Paradise.’

Would that I prepared might be,
Clean of all this world like she;
Hands that never gathered aught,
But in faithful service wrought.
Naked as a babe new born
Went she forth that winter morn,
And not a stain she bare.
She, I pray, may housèd be
With Kindness, Love, and Charity —
Better off in ease than we,
Now poor Marty’s gone.