Mother Goose for Grownups/The Judicious Judgment of Quite Contrary Mary

by Guy Wetmore Carryl

Though Mary had the kind of face
      The rudest wind would softly blow on;
Though she was full of simple grace,
      Sweet, amiable, and kind, and so on;
I would not have you understand
      That she was meek. You’d be mistaken.
She worked out logarithms, and
      Her favorite essayist was Bacon.

And, though not positive, I think
      She’d heard about Savonarola,
Had studied Maurice Maeterlinck,
      And read the works of Emile Zola,
And Emerson’s and some of Kant’s,
      And all of mine and Shopenhauer’s;
But still she cultivated plants,
      And spent her life in tending flowers.

She had a little hedge of box,
      Azalias, and a bed of tansy,
A double row of hollyhocks,
      And every different kind of pansy:
And, though so innocent of look,
      She’d lovers by the scores and dozens,
And learned, by talking with the cook,
      To tell her friends that they were her cousins.

The first was French, the second Greek,
      The third was born upon the Mersey,
The fourth one came from Mozambique,
      The fifth one came from the Isle of Jersey.
I cannot tell about the rest,
      But, judging from their dress and faces,
They came from north, east, south, and west,
      But all of them from different places.

Now, such was Mary’s sense of pride,
      Despite their fervent protestations,
Before she vowed to be a bride
      She set them all examinations:
She asked each one to tell the date
      Of Washington and Cleopatra,
Name Dickens’ novels, and locate
      The site of Yonkers and Sumatra.

But so it chanced that, from a score
      Of suitors resolute and haughty,
One gained a mark of sixty-four,
      And all the rest were under forty.
One swain alone the rest outclassed;
      Because of one audacious guess, he
This strict examination passed
      When Mary asked the date of Creçy.

The moral shows that when a maid
      Her life devotes unto a garden,
When horticultural skill’s displayed
      Her heart she does not dare to harden.
So crafty suitors, scorn the fates
      And you may lay this flattering balm to
Your souls; if you but get your dates
      The chances are you’ll get the palm, too!