They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men; They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again-- Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may.

And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say?

And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam?

When you ought to be thanking Heaven That your plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting-- "Where is my Plague to-day?"

If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.

_Aristophanes._

THE WIDOW MALONE

Did you hear of the Widow Malone O hone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone?

O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts; So lovely the Widow Malone, O hone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score Or more; And fortunes they all had galore In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone O hone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known, That no one could see her alone, O hone!

Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye; So bashful the Widow Malone, O hone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, How quare!

'Tis little for blushing they care Down there; Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, And says he, "You're my Molly Malone, My own."

Says he, "You're my Molly Malone."

And the widow they all thought so shy-- My eye!

Never thought of a simper or sigh; For why?

"O Lucius," said she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Your own; You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong:-- If for widows you die, Learn to kiss--not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

O hone!

O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

_Charles Lever._

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL

A district school, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent.

The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!

As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss!

"What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,-- I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"

With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!"

Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,-- A great, green, bashful simpleton, The b.u.t.t of all good-natured fun.

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The thunderer faltered,--"I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude!

Before the whole set school to boot-- What evil genius put you to't?"

"'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, "I did not mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot!

I know--boo--hoo--I ought to not, But, somehow, from her looks--boo--hoo-- I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

_William Pitt Palmer._

's.p.a.cIALLY JIM

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young-- Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 's.p.a.cially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 's.p.a.cially Jim.

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men An' I wouldn't take stock in _him!_ But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 's.p.a.cially Jim.

I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun'

('s.p.a.cially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him;

So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 's.p.a.cially Jim.

_Bessie Morgan._

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet b.u.t.termilk water'd the plain.

"O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again!

'Twas the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary!

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her,--and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her,--and ere I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single,--that's plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Edward Lysaght._

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?