But, since he first paid me his court, I’ve never allowed him to snore; His rollicking ways I’ve cut short,―― He slumbers serenely no more. My friends――I have many a friend―― Drop in rather often to tea; And ma comes a twelvemonth to spend, Which makes it quite pleasant for me. How sweet ’tis a husband to find Submissive and innocent quite; Himself to assert not inclined; Whatever I tell him is right. When I think of my maidenhood’s home―― He bore me thence blushing and fair―― To this one conclusion I come, I’m glad that no longer I’m there. My husband has feathered his nest; My progeny’s prospects are fair; My own way, it must be confess’d, I’ve got rather more here than there. So, since he’s resigned to his place, And no silly notions has got, I very serenely say grace, And reconciled feel to my lot. _The Hornet._ November 1, 1871. ―――― WOMAN. She is monarch of all she surveys, Her right there is none to dispute, On her altar submissively lays Its choicest, each fowl and each brute. Behold her surrounded by those Whose homage is lavishly done, The world at the tip of her toes, All its denizens crouching, save one. Look proud, pretty Queen from thy shrine, And thy vassals so loftily scan―― But tell them their labour, and thine, Is to make thee seem fair to――a man! _Punch’s Almanack._ 1874. ―――― SOLITUDE. I’m monarch of all I survey; I had no one my wrong to dispute, So was forcibly hurried away By an uniformed muscular brute. Oh solitude! where is thy charm? It’s certainly not in this place, For my heart is filled with alarm At the thought of a magistrate’s face. I haven’t a friend to go bail; I must drag out the night here, alone, And it goes at the rate of a snail; Was there ever so sad a wretch known. The cause of all this to me’s plain, My folly and wrong I now see! Never more will I drink champagne, But stick to the weakest of tea. Society’s all very well; But from dinners and suppers refrain, Or one day you will certainly tell Of the troubles of which I complain! And remember, wherever you go, To be sure and return home in peace. If you don’t, well, you’ll very soon know What ’tis to be in the hands of P’lice. From _The Figaro_. December 19, 1874. ―――― VERSES _Supposed to be written by Edward Vaughan Kenealy in his seat in the House of Commons._ I am member for Stoke-upon-Trent, My right there is none to dispute, And the eyes of the million are bent Upon me, so I dare not be mute. O Parliament, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place!