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Ellen Johnston (1835–1873?), “The Factory Girl”

“The Last Sark” (1867)

Editorial Introduction

By Caitlin Bartz

As Ellen Johnston states in her autobiography, published alongside “The Last Sark” in her only published volume of work, Autobiography, Poems, and Songs of Ellen Johnston, The Factory Girl,
I beg also to remind my readers that whatever my actions may have been, whether good, bad, or indifferent, that they were the results of instincts derived from the Creator,through the medium of my parents, and the character formed for me by the unavoidable influence of the TIME and COUNTRY of my BIRTH.
Johnston herself reminds readers that the time and country of her birth are indispensable to the conditions of her life, her work, and her art. Johnston was born in the mid-1830s in Hamilton inthe West Central Lowlands of Scotland, right outside of Glasgow, where she would spend a large portion of her life working in different factories and would later pass away. In late-18th into the mid-19th centuries, Scotland faced what some refer to as “a collective exercise in “self-colonization””, going from a “the traditional “Scottish” perspectives of old, towards a new modern “British” approach” (Findlay), moving away from the distinct cultural traditions and language that separated Scotland from England and into a more cohesive “British” identity.

 

“The Last Sark” is notably an exercise in intersectionality, written not only by a working-class, female poet, but one whose position as a Scottish poet is undeniable, given the usage of the Scots language within the poem. The Scots language is often divided into two categories – pre-1700s and post-1700s, as the rise of print books and translations of the Bible out of Latin (Unger 13-4), as well as a “well-documented attempt by various 18th-Century educators and grammarians (both English and Scottish) to eradicate ‘Scotticisms’ from public discourse” (Unger 14), or rather, to make  Scotland speak and write in standardized English over Scots or Scottish Gaelic. Standard English was seen as having “the weight and authority of ‘proper’, ‘correct’ language” (Unger 15), and leaving the Scots language being seen as low-class and poor. Therefore, the use of the Scots language by Johnston in “The Last Sark” accentuates the working-class nature of her poetry—even the language of the poem itself would have been seen at the time as more “working-class” or “poor.” As Johnston herself says, her life was a result of not only the time of her birth, but also the country.

Works Cited

Tips for Reading Poetry Written in Dialect

By Caitlin Bartz

While all poetry should be read aloud, this is doubly true for dialect poetry.

First try reading the poem out loud as it is written, slowly and carefully, paying attention to the form and sound of each word. It may also help to try and convert the poem into standardized English, once you have a good grasp of what the words sound like. Start with the easy words and then work through the harder ones using context clues. It may also help to see if there is a dictionary for that dialect that the poem is written in.Some poetry written in dialect will have readings online. Hearing the poem spoken by somebody who speaks in that dialect can be useful. However, for poems like “The Last Sark,”where readings are less likely to be posted, finding readings of poems written in the same or a similar dialect may help clarify what the poem would sound like.

For instance, here is a reading of Robert Burns’s “To a Mouse” by Glasgow native Sir William Connolly, to show what a Scots-dialect poem would sound like when read aloud (the text of the poem is available below the video):

To a Mouse

By Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
          Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
          Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
          Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
          An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
          ’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
          An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
          O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
          Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
          Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
          Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
          But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
          An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
          Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
          For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
          On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
          I guess an’ fear!

Annotations and Resources

  • Annotations are available for this poem. To learn how to view them, please see the How To View and Use Hypothesis Annotations help page.
  • For ease of access, “The Last Sark” in standardized English has been added beneath the original poem below.

Gude guide me, are you hame again, an’ ha’e ye got nae wark,
We’ve naething noo tae put awa’ unless yer auld blue sark.[1]
My head is rinnin’ roon about far lichter than a flee-
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
Our merchants an’ mill masters they wad never want a meal,
Though a’ the banks in Scotland wad for a twelvemonth fail;
For some o’ them have far mair goud than ony ane can see-
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
This is a funny warld, John, for it’s no divided fair,
And whiles I think some o’ the rich have got the puir folk’s share,                           10
Tae see us starving here the nicht wi’ no ae bless’d bawbee-
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
Oor hoose ance bean an’ cosey, John; oor beds ance snug and warm
Feels unco cauld an’ dismal noo, an’ empty as a barn;
The weans sit greeting in oor face, and we ha’e noucht to gie-
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
It is the puir man’s hard-won toil that fills the rich man’s purse;
I’m sure his gouden coffers they are hot wi’ mony a curse;
Were it no for the working man what wad the rich men be?
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!                             20
My head is licht, my heart is weak, my een are growing blin’;
The bairn[2] is faen’ aff my knee-oh! John, catch haud o’ him,
You ken I hinna tasted meat for days far mair than three;
Were it no for my helpless bairns I wadna care to dee.

 

“The Last Sark” Standardized English ConversionGood God, are you home again, and have you got no work,We’ve nothing now to put away except your old blue shirt.My head is running round about far lighter than a flea-What care some gentry if they’re well though all the poor would die!Our merchants and mill masters they would never want a meal,Though all the banks in Scotland would for a twelvemonth fail;For some of them have far more gold than anyone can see-What care some gentry if they’re well though all the poor would die!This is a funny world, John, for it’s not divided fair,And while I think some of the rich have got the poor folks share,                        10To see us starving here the night with not a blessed halfpenny-What care some gentry if they’re well though all the poor would die!Our house was nice and cozy, John; our beds once snug and warmFeels strange cold and dismal now, and empty as a barn;The kids sit weeping in our face, and we have naught to give-What care some gentry if they’re well though all the poor would die!It is the poor man’s hard-won toil that fills the rich man’s purse;I’m sure his golden coffers they are hot with money a curse;Were it not for the working man what would the rich men be?What care some gentry if they’re well though all the poor would die!                  20My head is light, my heart is weak, my eyes are growing blind;The baby is falling off my knee-oh! John, catch hold of him,You know I haven’t tasted meat for days far more than three;Were it not for my helpless babes I would not care to die.

  1. : Scots for "shirt." ↵
  2. bairn: Scots for "child" ↵

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