The Plymouth Weekly Democrat

Dressing for Church,
"Heavens! how I hate the bell!"
"You have?—dear me, I know full well
I'll never dress in time
For mercy's sake, come help me, Luce,
I'll make my toilet spruce—
That silk is quite sublime!
Here, lace this gaiter for me—do—
"A hole!" you see? plague take that shoe—
Please, Lucy, try and hide it—
Just think, it's Sunday, and my soul
cannot wear it with a hole!
The men will surely spy it.
They're always peeping at our feet,
(Though to be sure, they needn't peep
The way we hold our dresses;)
I'll disappoint them, though, to-day—
"and cross myself," pray did you say?
Don't laugh at my distresses!
How splendidly the silk will rustle!
(Please hand my "self-adjusting bustle,"
My corset and my hoop)
There now, I'll take five skirts or six—
Do hurry, Luce, and help me fix,
You know I cannot stoop:
"How shall I say my prayers to-day?"
As if girls went to church to pray!
How can you be so foolish?
Here, damp this ribbon in cologne;
"What for?" to paint, you silly one—
Now, Lucy, don't be mulish.
Now, then my hat—how he abhors
This thing—it's big as all out doors—
The frightful sugar-scoop!
Thank heaven, my cloak is handsome too,
It cost enough to be, I know
(Straighten out this hoop!)
My handkerchief and gloves you'll find
Just in that drawer—Lucy, are you blind?
(Does my dress trail?
It's all the fashion now, you know,
Pray does the paint and powder show
Through my lace veil?)
Thank you, my dear, I b'lieve I'm dressed;
The saints be praised! the day of rest
Comes only once in seven).
For if, on all the other six,
This trouble I should have to fix,
I'd never get to heaven!