A pipe, a book,
A cosy nook,
A fire,— at least its embers;
A dog, a glass;—
‘ T is thus we pass
Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed?
Poor Cupid's dead
These thousand years, I wager.
The modern maid
Is but a jade,
Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown
To “take” the town
Her first and last ambition.
What good is she
To you or me
Who have but a “position”?
So let us drink
To her,— but think
Of him who has to keep her;
And sans a wife
Let's spend our life
In bachelordom,— it's cheaper.