I’ve a question momentous I wish to propound To matrons and maidens alike: If you lived in a land where men are not found, Don’t you think you would go on a strike? What’s the use of fine features, of bright eyes and curls, When no one is by to admire? I’ve tried it, and know what I’m saying, dear girls, Of that kind of life you’d soon tire.
Chorus. In childhood it’s dollies, it’s novels for girls, But tell me my friends if you can, Where’s the pleasure in life for a girl of eighteen Like the pleasure of catching a man?
Each day like the former a burden time hangs On your hands; life itself is a bore. With not even ambition to curl your bangs, And your mirrors with dust covered o’er, You would turn with disgust from a tailor-made gown, From diamonds, lace and all that, And in extreme cases one might even frown At a love or a duck of a hat.
You have heard of the blossom whose sweetest perfume Was wasted upon desert air, But the aimless existence of this pretty bloom Does not for a moment compare With the life of a maiden, the victim of Fate, Compelled to live out life’s span In a country that does not provide her a mate, Too poor to furnish a man.
O’Rourke. That’s a foine song, to be sure; beautiful sentiment and all that, but are you really in earnest about this matter?
Kitty. Indeed I am.
O’Rourke. Thin how would yez loike to become Mrs. O’Rourke?
Kitty. (running toward him) Oh! do you really mean—(turning away) er—er—this is so sudden—you must give me time to think.
O’Rourke. “Think it over!” Yes, an’ whoile yez is thinkin’ it over Oi’ll be sthandin’ here frazin’ to death. Yez’ll have to do yer thinkin’ purty quick Miss Claus, or yez’ll be a widdy before yez is married, so you will.
Kitty. Are you really cold, dear? Why of course you are; how stupid of me to forget that you are not used to such a rigorous climate and those clothes of yours are hardly the proper thing for this frigid zone. I suppose you did not have time to change your clothes.