EPISTLE TO HER FRIENDS AT GARTMORE. Susanna Blamire Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Blamire, Susanna, 1747-1794. The Poetical Works of Miss Susanna Blamire “The muse of Cumberland.” Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale, M.D. with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell, ... Edinburgh John Menzies, 61 Princes Street; R. Tyas, London; D. Robertson, Glasgow; and C. Thurnam, Carlisle. MDCCCXLII. 1842 pp. 153-158.

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EPISTLE TO HER FRIENDS AT GARTMORE . MY Gartmore friends a blessing on ye , And all that's good still light upon ye ! Will you allow this hobbling rhyme To tell you how I pass my time ? 'Tis true I write in shorten'd measure , Because I scrawl but at my leisure ; For why ? — sublimity of style Takes up a most prodigious while ; To count with fingers six or seven , And mind that syllables are even , — To make the proper accent fall , La ! 'tis the very deuce of all : Alternate verse , too , makes me think How to get t'other line to clink ; And then your odes with two lines rhyming , An intermitting sort of chiming , Just like the bells on birth-days ringing , Or like your friend S. Blamire's singing , Which only pleases those whose ears Ne'er heard the music of the spheres . As for this measure , these trite strains Give me no sort of thought or pains ; If that the first line ends with head , Why then the rhyme to that is bed ; And so on through the whole essay , For careless ease makes out my say ; And if you'll let me tell you how I pass my time , I'll tell you now . First , then , I've brought me up my tea , — A medicine which I'd order'd me ; Its from the coast of Labrador , Sir Hugh , the gallant Commodore Admiral Sir Hugh Palliser . Brought it to me for my rheumatics , — O girls ! these aches play me sad tricks ; — And e'en in London had you found me , You'd found a yard of flannel round me . At eight I rise — a decent time ! But aunt would say 'tis oftener nine . I come down stairs , the cocoa ready , — For you must know I'm turn'd fine lady , And fancy tea gives me a pain Where 'tis not decent to complain . When breakfast's done , I take a walk Where English girls their secrets talk ; But as for you , ye're modest maids , And shun the house to walk i' the shades ; Often my circuit's round the garden , In which there's no flower worth a farthing . I sit me down and work a while , But here , I think , I see you smile ; At work ! quoth you ; — but little's done , Thou lik'st too well a bit of fun . At twelve , I dress my head so smart , Were there a man — he'd lose his heart ; My hair is turn'd the loveliest brown , There's no such hair in London town ! Nor do I use one grain of powder , Either the violet or the other ; Nature adopts me for her child , — Fair is her fruit when not run wild . At one , the cloth is constant laid By little Fan , our pretty maid . Round her such native beauty glows , You'd take her cheek to be some rose Just spreading forth its blossom sweet , Where red and white in union meet ; She's prettier much than her young lady , But that , you know , full easily may be . " Well , Fanny , do you wish to go To the dance there in the town below ? " " Yes ; — but I dare not ask my mistress . " " O ! I'll relieve you from that distress ! " I ask for her , — away she goes , And shines a belle among the beaus . Now , my good friends , by this you see , Rustics have balls as well as we ; And really as to different stations , Or comforts in the various nations , They're more upon an equal par Than we imagine them by far . They love and hate — have just the same Feeling of pleasure and of pain ; Only our kind of education Gives ours a greater elevation . I oft have listen'd to the chat Of country folks 'bout who knows what ! And yet their wit , though unrefin'd , Seems the pure product of the mind . You'd laugh to see the honest wives Telling me how their household thrives ; For , you must know , I'm fam'd for skill In the nice compound of a pill . " Miss Sukey , here's a little lass , She's not sae weel as what she was ; The peer peer bairn does oft complain , — A'd tell ye where , but I think shame . " " Nay , speak , good woman , — mind not me ; The child is not quite well I see . " " Nea ; " she says , " her belly aches , And Jwohnie got her some worm-cakes ; They did nea good — though purg'd her well , — What is the matter we can't tell ; She sadly whets her teeth at neet , And a' the day does nought but freet ; It's outher worms , or wind , or water , Something you know mun be the matter . " " My little woman , come to me ; Her tongue is very white I see ; Come , wrap her little head up warm , And give her this , — 'twill do no harm ; 'Twill give a gentle stool , or so . " " Is it a purge ? " " No , Peggy , no ; Only an easy gentle lotion , To give her once a-day a motion ; For Pothecaries late have found Diseases rise from being bound , 'Gainst which they've physic in their shop , And many a drug , and useless slop ; This here will purify your blood , And this will do your stomach good ; This is for vapours when splenetic , And here's a cure for the sciatic ; But let her take what I have given , 'Twill help to keep your child from heaven . " " Lord grant it may ! and if it do , Long as I live I'll pray for you . " After I've dined , maybe I read , Or write to favourites 'cross the Tweed ; Then work till tea , then walk again If it does neither snow nor rain . If e'er my spirits want a flow , Up stairs I run to my bureau , And get your letters — read them over With all the fondness of a lover ; This never fails to give me pleasure , For these are Friendship's hoarded treasure , And never fail to make me gay ; How oft I bless the happy day Which made us friends and keeps us so , Though now almost five years ago ! Trust me , my dear , I would not part With the share , I hope , I've in your heart , For any thing that wealth could give ; Without a friend , O who would live ! My favourite motto runs — " He's poor Who has a world and nothing more ; Exchange it for a friend , 'tis gain , A better thing you then obtain . " But stop , my journal's nearly done ; Through the whole day 'tis almost run . I think I'd sipp'd my tea nigh up , O ! yes , I'm sure I drank my cup ; I work till supper , after that I play or sing , maybe we chat ; At ten we always go to bed , And thus my life I've calmly led Since my return ; — as Prior says In some of his satiric lays , " I eat , and drink , and sleep , — what then ? I eat , and drink , and sleep again ; Thus idly lolls my time away , And just does nothing all the day ! "