And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,
As never snaps me up,"
And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup;"

Sue's man's mind is like good jell--
All one colour, and clear --
And Mig's no call to think at all
What's to come next year,

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That's troubled with that and this;--
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the man I kiss!

Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough's his choice,--
Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with knots in her voice,--

And Agatha will turn awake
While her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round,

For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
But peep who's passing by,