They told me 'twas my single state That harass'd thus my life; And to the altar soon I led A young and lovely wife. Oh! then what joys, what hopes were mine. Life seem'd a brighter heaven: But my wife eloped with her cousin Tom, And left me infants seven. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily.
[Sidenote: MARCH of Mind in the Privileged Classes: Marquess of W—— and other such asses. ⚹ ☿ ♏ ♀ ♊ ☽ ♂ ☌ MARCH of Musical Science also 'mong high and low, who jump Jim Crow; [Illustration] ♀ ♒ ♄ ☿ the force of taste ☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹ can no further go!]
Come, Liberality!—I hail the name, Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame— Whether to strike the world is your desire, In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;" Whether to govern in those stately domes Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes, And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin, And means to keep them out, can struggle in; Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes, Or beg about for other people's votes; Whether you fill the presidential chair, Or join the throng because a Lord is there; Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny, Put down your name, but never pay the money. But if, like some, the only certain way To reach your heart does through your stomach lay, Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son, And let the fund afford a little fun, 'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din, Turn out your purse, and be well lined within. Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there, Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear," And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks, The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.— But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone, Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one, And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see, Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."— Appealing lists appal you now, and they Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day. But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd, When Mister Secretary reads aloud That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One; Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone, Unless you longing linger near the spot To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot."