And if in an enlightened age He'd fain become a cultured sage, He must cram full his suffering head With languages, alive and dead, With ethics, logic, and philosophy, Astronomy also and theosophy, And cabbalistic learning too, And history, old as well as new, And fill his overloaded brain With metaphysics' idle strain. Oh, truly wretched and forlorn Is every Jewish son that's born; Miserable is all his life, Full of toil, and pain, and strife. Thank Heaven, life is very brief; And death soon brings a swift relief! Kalonymos then goes on to say that, had Providence decreed that he should be born a girl, his existence on earth would have been much more pleasant. Happier, I would surely be, If from this manhood I were free, And entered on life's weary whirl, As a lucky-fated girl; Then my life would be as bright As is a star in summer night. And when full grown, I ne'er would shirk From doing all a woman's work; From early morn till late at night, When shine the moonbeams' silvery light, I'd spend the hours in peaceful knitting, Contented to be ever sitting Amidst a busy, smiling crowd Of girls that sing and laugh aloud. When nights were dark, we'd talk together Of dress, and bonnets, and the weather; And then we'd gossip too apace Of all that happens in the place, And end the evening's conversation With jests, and tales of sweet flirtation. As time went on, I would not tarry, But some fit husband I would marry, Who, I am sure, would ne'r decline To give me sweets and luscious wine, And would enhance his sweet embraces With gifts of gems and costly laces. Oh, heavenly Father, who—'tis told— Didst work great miracles of old, How truly grateful I should be, If thou hadst but created me A girl, devoid of worldly care, And blessed with beauty ripe and rare. Alas! it is of no avail My hapless fortune to bewail; Heaven has willed that I, a man, Must even end as I began, Until grim death, a timely friend, Brings to my woes the wished-for end. Thus will I bear with patient grace What still befalls the Jewish race, And not forget those wondrous pages, Composed of old by worthy sages, Wherein 'tis said that we must bless Heaven in woe and happiness; And humbly then these words I say (With silent protest and dismay), “O Lord, I thank thee ('tis not scorn) That I was _not_ a woman born^[107-1].”