[Illustration]

When rustic woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that Curates flirt;
It pains, ah! sharper than the holly
Whose spikes her pretty fingers hurt.

Pleasant is pulpit-decoration,
And altar-ornamenting's sweet,
When girls get lost in contemplation
Of parson-whiskers, trim and neat.

Most pleasant too the cheery chatter
Of woodland parties, in the snow,
When gathering--well, well, no matter!
No more _I_'ll hunt for mistletoe.

No more I'll stand and hold the ladder
For reverend gentlemen to mount.
Ah me! Few memories make me madder,
Though merrier ones I may not count.

Goose! How about those steps I'd linger!
Muff! How I bound my handkerchief
Last Christmas Eve, about his finger,
Pierced by that cruel holly-leaf!

And now he's going to marry MINNIE,
The wealthy farmer's freckled frump,