SONG OF THE CHICAGO LAWYER.
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Divorces, Ho! Divorces! Ye sorry lords, come one and all! Afflicted wives, come at my call! I have a balm for all the smarts And pains of unrequited hearts; I have a cure for every ill That matrimonial feuds instil— Come ye unto my call! Here, pretty one! I know your lord refused to buy That velvet dress, no reason why— He is a brute! There, do not cry, I'll drive the tear-drop from your eye, And you again, fair one, shall be From such a selfish thraldom free— Take courage, then—look up! This way, good sir— Is raging, wild insanity; Ha! ha! my friend, is that the plea? Oh, well, we've doctors by the score Will prove it twenty times, or more, Or, if it may His Honor please, Will swear the moon is made of cheese— Come on, good sir, come on! Good morning, pious friend! You wish for ministerial aid To prove the flaws? Be not afraid— The ministerial conscience leads Sometimes to proving of misdeeds, Which less exalted minds would hold It nobler to have left untold; But duty, sir, is stern. Divorces, Ho! Divorces! We'll put them through at Dexter speed, And, this late day, there is no need Of flying off to Indiana In such a helter-skelter manner; We're going to have a train, you know, 'Twill stop, (with patients passing through,) Five minutes for divorces. |