My Susy is a bird of Spring,
A home-bird sweet and shy,
With rainbow colours on her wing
And laughter in her eye:
My hopes in life flit round beneath
Her coronet of fluff:
One hidden thorn within the wreath—
She makes the Sunday duff!
_When Susy makes the duff,
If man were sterner stuff,
He’d kneel and plead at Mercy’s seat
When Susy makes the duff._
It is not that she loves me less—
That rare hymeneal sin!
It is not that her morning dress
Cuts out the nimble “fin.”
It is not that her eyes of blue
Convey the cold rebuff—
(Oh, let me, friend! confide in you)
She makes the Sunday duff!
_When Susy makes the duff!
Love’s motor waxes rough,
And all the world gets out of joint
When Susy makes the duff!_
I’ve tried all subtle arts and wiles
To lure her from her bent;
I’ve even said, ’twixt frowns and smiles,
That cooks are Devil-sent.
But “Oh,” she’ll say—and never show
The shadow of a huff—
“My dearest Jim, I know, I know—
_I’ll_ make your Sunday duff!”
_When Susy makes the duff
I groan “Enough, enough!”
A stricken dear, in frozen truth,
When Susy makes the duff!_
Oh, shall I sigh and suffer still
To act the martyr’s part?
Or shall I brave dyspepsia’s ill
And indigestion’s smart?
No need recurring dates to con,
Or write them on my cuff,
While Susy pins her apron on
To make the Sunday duff!
_Ah, when she makes the duff,
No grump be I, or gruff;
But put the white man’s burden down
When Susy makes the duff!_