In this woman, whose business it is to prepare my dinner,
I find the most surprising sensitiveness to works of art,
With splendid qualities of sympathy and heart,
And now I learn her father was a sinner.

His lines were laid in unadventurous places;
He was a tradesman in a little town.
But whiles, he laid the yardstick down
And went and lost his money at the races.

The draper had his quiver very full:
At the thought of his thriftlessness my heart should harden.
But had he lived and died like a churchwarden,
I know my housekeeper had been dull.