No shooting to-day of partridge or snipe;
It has steadily rained since morning broke,
In dancing spirits I kindle his pipe
(I am learning to like the smell of smoke!)

He has given up such a deal for me!
He likes to give up his bachelor way;
He says it is charming _not_ to be free,
So he only smokes one pipe in the day.

Together we sit in his little room,
Which is fitted up like a dainty toy;
And if without there is darkness and gloom,
Within there is plenty of light and joy.

'Tell me of all you have done, if you can,'
I cry, as the pretty smoke lightly curls;
'I want to hear of the life of a man
I, who only know of the life of girls!'

He shakes his head with a smile and a nod,
The smoke curling round it with idle aim;
He is like the picture of some young god,
Who, from painted clouds, looks out of a frame.

'The life of a girl is a fairy thing,
With a sweetness none can wish to forget,
Caught from a snowdrop in earliest spring
Or the first faint breath of a violet;
The life of a man, as it is and was,