AFTER.

How do the Gentlemen do after marriage?—

Oh, then nothing pleases 'em,

But everything teases 'em;

Then they're grumbling and snarling—

You're a "fool" not a "darling;"

Though they're rich as the Ingies,

They're the stingiest of stingies;

And what is so funny,

They've never got money;

Only ask them for any

And they haven't a penny;

But what passes all bounds,

On themselves they'll spend pounds—

Give guineas for lunch

Off real turtle and punch;

Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about;

Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;

Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing;

Storming and raging past all assuaging.

Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,

To hear the door slam to, be called simple Ma'am too:

(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;)

As a matter of course they'll have a divorce;

Or "my Lord Duke" intends to send you home to your friends:

Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;

Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;

While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong;

"Ev'ry shirt wants a button!" Every day they've cold mutton;

They're always a-flurrying one, or else they're a-hurrying one, or else they're a-worrying one;

Threatening to smother your dear sainted Mother, or kick your big Brother;

After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why, "the house is in ruins!"

Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you've taken to drinking;

They're perpetually rows keeping, 'cause out of the house-keeping they're in bonnets their spouse keeping;

So when they've been meated, if with pies they're not treated, they vow that they're cheated;

Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces;

And they'll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you're quite brown;

For their wife they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to stand a cap from a Milliner—e'en a paltry twelve shillinger;

And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers of those bowers and scrapers the young linendrapers;

Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children's clothes;

Though you strive and endeavour, they're so mightily clever, that please them you'll never, till you leave them for ever—yes! the hundredth time sever—"for ever—AND EVER"!!

Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage,

But this is the way they go on after marriage.

"I sink you did say, Madame, you shall take von Cobblare and a leetel Beeshofe to follow."

ANACREONTIC
IN PRAISE OF "SHERRY COBBLERS,"
BY
A LADY OF QUALITY.

Oh, I have quaff'd of many a drink,

Right from "Tokay" to "Tiddlelywink;"

I have grown dizzy upon the "Mountain;"

Cool'd me with "Soda from the fountain;"

My eyes have glisten'd with "Malmsey" brightening;

My soul been rous'd with "Thunder and Lightning;"

With "Rossignol" I've fill'd my throat,

Till another "jug! jug!" was all my note;

And when that cloy'd—the feast to vary—

I've madly swallow'd my "Canary;"

I've tippled Punch of my own brewing;

Gone first to "rack," and then, to "ruin;"

Like Cleopatra, th' Egyptian girl,

I've drain'd my draught of precious "purl;"

My heart I've warm'd with nice "lamb's wool;"

I've had at your "dog's nose" many a pull;

And cried aloud between my sips too,

"It's the sweetest thing I've put my lips to."

But tho' sweet your "dog's nose" to my two lips,

Oh, sweeter still are those "mint juleps;"

Yet much as Juleps I adore,

I love my neat "Old Tom" still more;

But—away with all vain artful dodges!—

I doat upon my "cordial Hodges;"

And yet it must—shall be confest—

I love a little "Jackey" best.

Still it doth Jackey—Tom eclipse,

To press my "Bishop" to my lips;

Yes, 'tis that "Bishop" most I prize,

That lifts my soul up to the skies.

Yet no!—there's one so sweet and good,

That I could die with—that I could!

What tho' "Old Tom" this heart enthrall?

I love a "Cobbler" more than all!

What tho' my "Bishop" spicier be?

A "Cobbler" give—oh, give to me!

My "Jackey's" strong-my "Hodges'" fine;

But ah! my "Cobbler" is divine;

In summer cool "dog's noses" are,

But "Cobblers" cooler—sweeter far.

When to the Opera I repair,

I always take my "Cobbler" there;

When at a ball I seek delight,

My "Cobbler" makes me dance all night;

For 'tis my greatest joy and pride

To have a "Cobbler" by my side.

I love all "Cobblers!"—If any best,

The last alone excels the rest;

With each I cry, between my sips too,

"'Tis the sweetest 'Cobbler' I've put my lips to."

ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT.