A girl in 1770

A Girl in 1770

There’s no dress I love
More than one
With a big ‘ol rip up the front.
There’s no place I’d rather read
Than up in a tree
With a beautiful, huge, comfy trunk.
There’s no hobby I love
Better than riding
On the back of a bucking horse.
There’s no action I
Delight in more
Than jumping into a stream with force.
 
I do like being a girl indeed.
But why
must I always wear dresses?
It’s quite unfair that boys do romp
Without a thought
of tresses.
They don’t tie bows,
They don’t wear mob caps,
And they aren’t annoyed with stays.
They don’t secure clasps,
Or muffs, or pattens,
And they don’t have to advert their gaze.
 
I do like dancing
But not learning
The “right” way to take tea.
I like singing
And the harpsichord,
But I don’t like embroidery.
 
And I enjoy gardening,
But not the tedious,
Task of making cheese.
I like baking,
And candle making,
But not scrubbing floors on my knees.
 
I suppose I must,
Even if I don’t
Very much agree,
Accept who I am
And what I do
With a bit of dignity.
 
As a lady,
I can give
Almost as much as men.
I could retell all
The latest happenings
Before they could count to ten.
 
And I can dance
without ceasing,
When they say they’re quite tired
I guess I have
Even more endurance
Than that in the army required.
 
I have such precision
In the art
Of the needle and the thread.
That I’m sure
If a rifle you gave me
I could shoot off the enemy’s head.
 
I suppose
It’s not that bad
To live the way girls do.
But always the
Rebellious desires
In my heart are true.