The meaning of meek she never knew, But imagined the phrase had something to do With "Moses," a peddling German Jew, Who, like all hawkers, the country through, Was "a person of no position;" And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane To a lady of high condition!
Even her graces—not her grace— For that was in the "vocative case"— Chilled with the touch of her icy face, Sat very stiffly upon her! She never confessed a favor aloud, Like one of the simple, common crowd— But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed, As who should say, "You do me proud, And do yourself an honor!"
And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, Had really no foundation; But, like the fabrics that gossips devise— Those single stories that often arise And grow till they reach a four-story size— Was merely a fancy creation!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high— For Miss MacBride first opened her eye Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky; But pride is a curious passion— And in talking about her wealth and worth, She always forgot to mention her birth To people of rank and fashion!
Of all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth Among our "fierce democracie"! A bridge across a hundred years, Without a prop to save it from sneers,— Not even a couple of rotten peers,— A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration! So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation.
Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed, at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation! Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine, That plagued some worthy relation!
But Miss MacBride had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her pride— For rich was the old paternal MacBride, According to public rumor; And he lived "up town," in a splendid square, And kept his daughter on dainty fare, And gave her gems that were rich and rare, And the finest rings and things to wear, And feathers enough to plume her.
A thriving tailor begged her hand, But she gave "the fellow" to understand, By a violent manual action, She perfectly scorned the best of his clan, And reckoned the ninth of any man An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was a golden boot, Was mortified with a bootless suit, In a way that was quite appalling; For, though a regular sutor by trade, He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, Who cut him off with a saw—and bade "The cobbler keep to his calling!"