[Illustration]
When rustic woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that Curates flirt;
It pains, ah! sharper than the holly
Whose spikes her pretty fingers hurt.
Pleasant is pulpit-decoration,
And altar-ornamenting's sweet,
When girls get lost in contemplation
Of parson-whiskers, trim and neat.
Most pleasant too the cheery chatter
Of woodland parties, in the snow,
When gathering--well, well, no matter!
No more _I_'ll hunt for mistletoe.
No more I'll stand and hold the ladder
For reverend gentlemen to mount.
Ah me! Few memories make me madder,
Though merrier ones I may not count.
Goose! How about those steps I'd linger!
Muff! How I bound my handkerchief
Last Christmas Eve, about his finger,
Pierced by that cruel holly-leaf!
And now he's going to marry MINNIE,
The wealthy farmer's freckled frump,
A little narrow-chested ninny!
Into Pound's pond I'll go and jump!
Yet no, Miss MIGGS and he might chuckle,
I know a trick worth two of that;
I'll up and take that fool, BOB BUCKLE,
I hate him, but his farm is fat.
When rustic woman stoops to folly,
And finds e'en Curates can betray,
What act can aggravate the "dolly"
Whose wealth has won his heart away?
The only art her grief to cover,
Enable her to lift her head,
And show her false white-chokered lover
_She_ won't sing "_Willow_," is--to wed!
* * * * *