Funny Doings Funny Doings in the Convent
Strange things every day we hear.
So one and all pray draw near,
Of a strange trial you shall hear,
Concerning life in a Convent.
In Hull, as I to you will tell,
Within a Convent I did dwell,
A Mother, as you know well,
And a Sister of Mercy.
Her name is Starr, as I now state,
She’s a perfect star, and no mistake,
So I will tell you if you will wait,
How they treated a Nun in a Convent.
Now the trial is o’er, and the Judge did say
Mistress Starr, you have lost the day,
And five hundred pounds you’ll have to pay
For tricks that are play’d in the Convent.
Now this Nun’s name it is S——n,
Who wished to lead a life serene,
And has for years an inmate been,
And led a nice life in the Convent.
For Mrs. Starr—that merciful mother—
In her some faults would oft discover,
And led her a life, a regular drudger,
When she was in the Convent.
This Nun she could do nothing right,
She was always wrong, both day and night,
To be a Nun is’nt nice,
How happy they live in a Convent!
She made her on her knees to go,
Black-lead the stoves, scrub the floor,
Empty them things the name I don’t know,
And that’s what she did in a Convent.
She dare not keep thimble, cotton, or rag,
Her clothes were not fit for a bone-picker’s bag,
And would make her walk about, isn’t it sad,
When she was in the Convent.
If she snored in bed that was not right,
Or picked gooseberries that was not ripe,
This duck of a mother led her a fine life.
Oh, who would live in a Convent?
If she dared to write, or too loud speak,
Or if of grub too much did eat,
She must lay for a month without blanket or sheet,
Oh, that was a treat in a Convent!
Mrs. Starr said she once met her with a ham
And her mouth was like turkey’s crammed,
And she said, sister, what are you at,
I declare your mother is smothered in fat,
Did you ever see such an hungry glutton,
Upon sawdust you must be put on,
You put away ham if you’re baulk’d of mutton,
Said kind Mother Starr of the Convent.
When her stocking was the Judge before,
He said they’re old, I’m certain sure,
Why they’ve been well patched behind and before,
Is that what they wear in a Convent?
Yes, said the Nun, and it is a great scandal,
She says grease is dear, and I must not use candle,
And as for the grub I could’nt handle,
Whilst I was in the Convent.
It would puzzle Old Nick with her to agree,
And as for mercy, small share she gave me,
So I think my Lord Judge, you plainly may see,
It’s no joke to live in a Convent.
So ladies all, don’t think it a sin,
If your husband at night you can’t keep in,
Send for Mrs. Starr, and bundle him in,
And give him a month in a Convent;
He’ll miss his wife to tuck in the clothes,
To make him gruel and tallow his nose,
For one dose will cure him I do suppose,
If he only gets in a Convent.
Now you young lasses, my song is near done,
And I would advise you everyone,
To ask Mrs Starr to make you a Nun,
And have a peep at her Convent!
W. S. Fortey, General Steam Printer and Publisher, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.