Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love's a rover! Mig, her man's as good as cheese And honest as a briar, Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,— But my dear lad's a liar! Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha Are thick with Mig and Joan! They bite their threads and shake their heads And gnaw my name like a bone; 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 color, 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, Joan is paired with a putterer That bastes and tastes and salts, And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love is false!
This poem is in the public domain.