He is always home ere the clock strikes ten;
So I won't be foolish and make a fuss,
But try to remember that men are men.




Sitting and waiting for Harry alone,
Watching the minutes, and wanting him back--
Why are you absent, my Harry, my own?
Am not I nicer than billiards and Jack?

Traitress to ask such a question! for shame!
Thou art, thou knowest, beginning and end!
His whole life is thine--he is _not_ to blame!
May not thy husband go out with a friend?

Thou art the false one, and he is the true--
Fretful and idle, unworthy thy king!
Hast thou not anything useful to do,
Thou good-for-nothing and cross little thing?

Scolding myself, I spring up from my chair,
Calling out loud that the time is _not_ long;
March down the room with a resolute air,
Seize my guitar, and burst out into song!

Poor little girl, sitting singing alone,
Pretty guitar round a slender neck hung,
Smiles on thy lips, but a sad little moan,