P'rhaps she'll wait longer still for a young bridegroom yet!
For I rather repent having scouted poor Joan,
She is prettier far, though I don't like her home.
Still a second-hand wife, and four babes ready made,
Must be popped in the scale and against that be weighed.
"Now, Murphy," cried Flanagan, "your comical song!
Why, you look black as if all on earth had gone wrong!
Come, I'll bet what you like I can guess what you thought
(If you did take the trouble to meditate aught),
'Tis a bother, I own, and you well may look blue