She Was Very Commonplace
By A. J. Waterhouse
She was not “emancipated,” and nobody termed her “new,”
And I’m really pained to mention that from clubs she quite withdrew.
She could hear the name of Browning with no sign of soulful sighs,
And that she had read her Shakespeare she would rarely advertise. She had culture, but of “culchah” she was shy, I’m grieved to state;
And I’ve seen her wear a costume that was three weeks out of date.
“Bridge?” she said. “I think that gambling is a sin and a disgrace.”
O, I may as well admit it,—she was very commonplace. But you should have seen her children as they nestled by her side;
And you should have seen her husband as he gazed on her with pride;
And I have a little notion, as they looked on her dear face,
That they never once suspected she was very commonplace. She was not “emancipated,” but she toiled to bless her brood,
Quite forgetting sighs for Browning, as she labored for their good.
She was somewhat short on “culchah,” but she was so long on home
That her husband and her children never cared from thence to roam— Never cared for crimson blossoms that the primrose path supplies,
Since they found the greatest pleasure in the lovelight in her eyes.
Full content with humble duties unto which love added grace—
O, it must be quite apparent she was sadly commonplace. Quite old-fashioned! Yet for love of one whose mem’ry we recall,
With a tear that half is starting and is half inclined to fall,
Let us thank our God, my brothers, of the morn we left behind,
That He gave to us dear mothers of the good old-fashioned kind.
—A. J. Waterhouse, in “California Weekly.”