The Drizzler

Armour's the jewel for me of them all.

Somewhere in my new novel about the life and times of Robert Burns's wife Jean Armour, there's a reference to the practice of 'drizzling' and 'drizzlers'. When I first heard about this, the eighteenth century – and largely female – practice of snipping precious metal embellishments from male garments, with or without the wearer’s permission, and selling the gold and silver to be melted down, I was intrigued by the notion and of course, it found its way into the novel. You'll have to read the book if you want to know who, when and where! I say in the end note to the book that everything either happened or could have happened, so you'll have to make up your own mind about certain events. Although you might be surprised ...

Anyway, a good long while before I wrote the Jewel, I was so intrigued by the notion of drizzlers that I wrote a poem in the persona of one of them. I thought you might like to read it, so here it is.

THE DRIZZLER

The play’s the place for this game,

crowded halls, assemblies, balls.

I keep a pair of scissors in my

needle case, birds of steel, their

beaks as sharp as my tongue and

a spool for winding my booty on.

My skirts are a garden,

how my nimble needle flies.

A froth of smuggled lace at my wrist

hides my hand from prying eyes.

Peacocks are my prey.

Rich young men or old no matter

so long as their coats are fancy.

Roses, purls and picots are good,

dangling spangles are easy,

acorns are fine, fringes are better

but I have grown so bold that

I have slit silver buttons from their

waistcoats beneath their noses

and I remember one young buck who

wore medallions of beaten gold

with cupids and I had them I had them but

I was sorry to send such cherubs for melting.

Some women call their pillage flirtation.

What can their gallants do but submit?

But the covert assault excites me more.

I gauge them from behind my fan.

Up close, their hearts beat far too loud to

hear the slice of blade on blade.

They never see my work.

They’re watching the shady cleft

between my breasts, they never catch

the swiftness of my hand

between their baubles but

with their warm lips on mine

I’ll palm my shears and

clip their treasures one by one.

My mother died when I was

much too young to grieve.

My father pays lip service to thrift while

donning his powdered wigs, his velvets,

his hose, his ruffled linen shirts.

So I’ll take what’s offered elsewhere

snipping in secret, concealing my

rich pickings in my sleeve.

Later, I’ll tease my stolen gold from

silken thread and take it to the old woman

who weighs it on her scales and

hands me a few coins instead.

Pin money. It’s never enough

but the thought of this subtle robbery

makes me flush and catch my breath.

I’ll prick their vanity with my tiny shears.

A small piracy.

We are drizzlers.

We are buccaneers.