Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Father Abbeys Will
By John Seccomb (17081792)To which is now added, a letter of Courtship to his virtuous and amiable Widow.
T
My joy and life
I freely now do give her
My whole estate,
With all my plate,
Being just about to leave her.
A long cart rope,
A frying pan and kettle,
An ashes pail,
A threshing flail,
An iron wedge and beetle.
Nine warden pears,
A large old dripping platter,
This bed of hay,
On which I lay,
An old saucepan for butter.
A two-quart jug,
A bottle full of brandy,
A looking glass,
To see your face
You’ll find it very handy.
As ever flew,
A pound of shot and wallet,
A leather sash,
My calabash,
My powder horn and bullet.
A garden spade,
A hoe, a rake, a ladder,
A wooden can,
A close-stool pan,
A clyster-pipe and bladder.
My old ram cat,
A yard and half of linen,
A woolen fleece,
A pot of grease,
In order for your spinning.
An ashen broom,
A candlestick and hatchet,
A coverlid
Striped down with red,
A bag of rags to patch it.
A tub of fat,
A book put out by Bunyan,
Another book
By Robin Cook,
A skein or two of spunyarn,
Some garden stuff,
A quantity of borage,
Some devil’s weed
And burdock seed,
To season well your porridge.
With one salt fish,
If I am not mistaken,
A leg of pork,
A broken fork,
And half a flitch of bacon.
One peck of meal,
A knife without a handle,
A rusty lamp,
Two quarts of samp,
And half a tallow candle.
Two oxen tripes,
An oaken dish well carved,
My little dog
And spotted hog,
With two young pigs just starved.
I have no more,
I heartily do give it,
My years are spun,
My days are done,
And so I think to leave it.
As rich as church or college mouse,
Which is sufficient invitation
To serve the college in his station.
M
To you I fly,
You only can relieve me
To you I turn,
For you I burn,
If you will but believe me.
Admit my flame,
And grant me my petition;
If you deny,
Alas! I die,
In pitiful condition.
Of your dear spouse
Had reached us at New Haven,
My dear wife died,
Who was my bride,
In anno eighty-seven.
Let’s both agree
To join our hands, for I do
Boldly aver
A widower
Is fittest for a widow.
’Tis not your dower
I make this flowing verse on;
In these smooth lays
I only praise
The glories of your person.
Was left by Mat.
Fortune to me has granted
In equal store,
I’ve one thing more
Which Matthew long had wanted.
You have to show,
The young think teeth inviting.
But, silly youths!
I love those mouths
Where there’s no fear of biting.
That’s never dry,
These woful times is fitting.
A wrinkled face
Adds solemn grace
To folks devout at meeting.
Where corn might grow,
Such fertile soil is seen in ’t,
A long hook nose,
Though scorned by foes,
For spectacles convenient.
I would put down
Your charms from head to foot,
Set all your glory
In verse before ye,
But I’ve no mind to do ’t.
And make no stay;
For, soon as you come hither,
We’ll eat and sleep,
Make beds and sweep
And talk and smoke together.
I must move there,
Towards Cambridge straight I’ll set me
To touse the hay
On which you lay,
If age and you will let me.