miss miriam briggs was a plain, plain cook,

and her cooking was none too good

(not at all like the recipes out of the book,

and, in fact, one might tell at the very first look

that things hadn't been made as they should).

her master, a person named lymmington-blake,

at her cooking did constantly grieve,

and at last he declared that "a change he must make,"

for he "wanted a cook who could boil or could bake,"

and—this very plain cook—"she must leave."

so she left, and her master, the very same day,

for the registry office set out,

for he naturally thought it the very best way

of procuring a cook with the smallest delay.

(you, too, would have done so, no doubt.)

but, "a cook? goodness gracious!" the lady declared

(at the registry office, i mean),

"i've no cook on my books, sir, save one, and she's shared

by two families; and, sir, i've nearly despaired,

for so rare, sir, of late, cooks have been."

where next he enquired 'twas precisely the same:

there wasn't a cook to be had.

though quite high were the wages he'd willingly name,

and he advertised,—uselessly,—none ever came,—

not a cook, good, indiff'rent, or bad.

what was to be done? mr. lymmington-blake

began to grow thinner and thinner.

(now and then it is pleasant, but quite a mistake,

to dine every day on a chop or a steak,

and have nothing besides for your dinner.)

so he said: "if i can't get a cook, then a mate

i'll endeavour to find in a wife"

(his late wife deceased, i p'r'aps ought to relate,

four or five years before), "for this terrible state

of things worries me out of my life."

so he looked in the papers, and read with delight

of a "lady of good education,

a charming complexion, eyes blue (rather light),"

who "would to a gentleman willingly write."

she "preferred one without a relation."

now lymmington-blake was an orphan from birth,

and had neither a sister nor brother,

while of uncles and aunts he'd a similar dearth,

and he thought, "here's a lady of singular worth;

i should think we should suit one another."

so he wrote to the lady, and she wrote to him,

and the lady requested a photo,

but he thought, "i'm not young, and the picture might dim

her affection; i'll plead, to the lady, a whim,

and refuse her my photo in toto."

"i'll be happy, however," he wrote, "to arrange

a meeting for wednesday night.

hampstead heath, on the pathway, beside the old grange,

at a quarter to eight. if you won't think it strange,

wear a rose—i shall know you at sight."

came wednesday night, mr. lymmington-blake

to the rendezvous all in a flutter

himself—in a new suit of clothes—did betake;

and over and over, to save a mistake,

the speech he had thought of did mutter.

he wore a red rose, for he thought it would show

he had taken the matter to heart.

a lady was there. was it she? yes, or no?

blake didn't know whether to stay or to go.

he was nervous. but what made him start?

'twas the figure—at first he could not see her face—

which somehow familiar did look.

then she turned—and he ran. do you think it was base?

i fancy that you'd have done so in his place.

it was miriam briggs, the plain cook.