Your heart from you stealing, though on guard all the while, All your senses o'er-turning, and making your brain Like a teetotum spun by Miss Pleasure and Pain? But the brute of a man who can firmly persist 'Gainst the feminine tear and a sigh to resist, Leaves the fair one no weapons to urge her complaint But to go in hysterics, or have a good faint. But stop, pray where am I? I've been straying again! That I'm quite off my beat appears perfectly plain. Like the dog I take with me when walking about, Who will run down each turning, first in and then out. Thus, when but three miles past 'neath these two feet of mine, I am certain his four feet have traversed o'er nine; So this quill of wild goose, if the straight path it went, Might save more of your patience than thirty per cent. "Well," said Murphy, "you know," (and his fair bride he placed In a chair, while he bustled his arm round her waist; But perceiving a sore throat blow in at the door, He just twisted his arm round her neck like a boa.) "Well," he said; "you know"--but he could not get farther. Oh, truly, the subject seems delicate rather. "Stop, 'tis really too bad thus your time to be wasting, When I'm sure the sweet whisky you'd be after tasting. 'Tis a beautiful spirit, will cure melancholy; And can make even grief to look pleasant and jolly." Then continued he thus, in a still lower tone, "Dearest! Much-better-half, 'tis no fault of my own, But I'd rather explain to yourself quite alone." "No, no, no!" cried each voice; "we will have it, sir, now." And they clapped, stamped, and made such a terrible row, That poor Murphy soon saw he no rest there should find Till confessed, so thus spoke forth in accents resigned. "Well my friends, you must know, About eight years ago I first went as a lad to old Donolly's farm; Where I've been ever since, And, the truth not to mince, Am thought well-behaved, clever, and quite free from harm. Now of girls he has two, Pretty fair ones to view, With such figures I'm sure can surpassed be by none. But they both of them thought (Which their eyes soon me taught), That I'd make for their father an excellent son. Now what could a man do? He can't marry wives two, And in truth I myself wanted neither. So I hunted about, And a lover found out, Whom I gave a broad hint might have either. But the other poor girl would each offer refuse, Till the young man decided 'twas worse than no use To solicit her hand, and considered it mine, Though I two or three times did the honour decline; Then her father had made up his mind I should do, While poor Joan on that point seemed quite satisfied too; Though I never the slightest encouragement gave, But was only polite--as I always behave. I can but remember one time that I kissed her, And then sure the pleasure was shared by her sister. Just of late, since I fixed on this dame for my bride,