And now to wed her he is nothing loth.
Ha! ha! he’ll find my fingers in the broth.
He’s ordered cards for Wednesday—Park-st. Church:
Mayhap his bride will leave him in the lurch;
I’ll marry her myself, or rot in prison.
Why should’nt she be mine as well as his’n?
I do remember an apothecary, or rather orter,
Who, somewhere hereabouts, sells soda-water.
I’ll hie to him, and high this bottle fill,
With laughing gas. Ha! ha! my heart be still.