Part 3 — THE Flax-Dresser's Wife of Spondon, AND THE POUND OF TEA.
Reading edition
The following ballad, recounting the droll mistake made by a woman at Spondon, near Derby, who thought green tea was to be boiled as greens, and eaten accordingly as "cabbage and bacon," was printed in the "spirit of English wit," in 1809. It tells its own tale. It may be well to remark that flax was, some years ago, much grown in this part of Derbyshire: some meadows at Duffield through which the turnpike road passes, are still known by the name of Flax-holmes.
'Twas more than fifty years ago, In Spondon's simple village, Spondon, in Derbyshire, I trow, Well known for useful tillage. There dwelt a pair of simple souls— The husband a flax-dresser; His wife dressed victuals for his jowls, And darn'd his hose—God bless her. Now these poor folks had got a friend, Who dwelt in London city; And oft some present he would send To John and dame, in pity. Now, reader, if you'll backwards turn, And read this tale's beginning, Full half-a-century you'll learn This story has been spinning. Now near that time, you must be told, Tea first came into fashion; Tea, which oft made a husband scold, And bounce about in passion. At least, 'mongst those of middling life It made a hideous riot; To have a gay tea-drinking wife, A man could ne'er be quiet. 'Twas thought as bad as now, I ween,— A sin since then grown bigger,— Were a man's wife, by guzzling gin, To cut a reeling figure. But London, who drank tea the first, Grew reconcil'd unto it; And, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst, The ladies still would do it. Now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend (The flax-dresser of Spondon) Thought a good pound of tea he'd send To please them both from London. But he forgot, good man, I trow, That in this favoured nation, Good things, or bad, still travel slow, Like cow-inoculation. Nor ever dreamt, you may believe, That they had no more notion What was the gift they did receive, Than of the Western Ocean. So when it came, long ponder'd they How 'twas to be devour'd; They wish'd he'd sent some hint to say, For they were quite o'erpower'd. At length, right well they both agreed 'Twere best it should be taken, By way of greens, when next they'd need, With some of their fat bacon. Next day arrived, the flax-man's wife Set on her sauce-pan flattish, Popp'd in the tea, then took a knife And cut some bacon fattish. The bacon soon enough was done, But still the tea, so evil, Kept very tough—the clock struck One; She wish'd it at the devil. For at the hour of noon each day, These humble friends of labour Took their plain meal—nor only they, For so did every neighbour. Finding it hard, though tasted oft, She bawl'd out like a sinner, "This cursed stuff will ne'er be soft, So, John! come down to dinner."