Part 24 (1/2)

Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why don't the men propose?

Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes; It is no fault of yours, mamma, _That_ everybody knows; You _fete_ the finest men in town, Yet, oh! they won't propose.

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons, I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some _distingue_ beau A glance upon me throws; But though he'll dance and smile and flirt, Alas! he won't propose.

I've tried to win by languis.h.i.+ng, And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books and talked of them As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisped out nought beyond Plain ”yesses” or plain ”noes,”

And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, ”Now I _propose_ again----”

I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose; But oh! I found 'twas only at _Ecarte_ he'd propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?

Oh, what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one; At b.a.l.l.s I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why _won't_ the men propose?

_Thomas Haynes Bayly._

A PIN

Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.

The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin, And she p.r.i.c.ks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said-- When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain-- If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.

A pin is such a tiny thing,--of that there is no doubt,-- Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing--when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her ”bang” is out of curl.

And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarking, ”Dear, you look so worn and tired!”

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said, ”Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added, ”It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”

Then she said, ”If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend.”

And she left me with the feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day, And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and s.h.i.+ning for a thrust-- Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather rust-- Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.