'Tis not an empty and flattering deceit,
Begot in a foolish brain;
For the heart speaks loud with its ceaseless throbs,
"We are not born in vain";
And the words that out of the heart-throbs roll,
They cannot deceive the hoping soul.
MRS. MCNAIR
Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem.—Horace.
Mrs. McNair
Was tall and fair;
Mrs. McNair was slim;
She had flashing black eyes and raven hair;
But a very remarkably modest air;
And her only care was for Mr. McNair;
She was exceedingly fond of him.
He sold "notions" and lace
With wonderful grace,
And kept everything neatly displayed in its place:
The red, curly hair on his head and his face
He always persisted
Should be oiled and twisted;
He was the sleekest young husband that ever existed.
Precisely at four
He would leave his store;
And Mr. McNair with his modest bride
Seated snugly and lovingly by his side,
On the rural Broadway,
Every pleasant day,
In his spick-span carriage would rattle away.
Though it must be allowed
The lady was proud,
She'd have no maid about her the dear lady vowed:
So for Mr. McNair
The wear and the fare
She made it a care of her own to prepare.
I think I may guess, being married myself,
That the cause was not solely the saving of pelf.
As for her, I'll declare,
Though raven her hair,
Though her eyes were so dark and her body so slim,
She hadn't a thought for a man but him.
From three to nine,
Invited to dine,
Oft met at the house of the pair divine:
Her husband—and who, by the way, was well able—
Did all the "agreeable" done at the table;
While she—most remarkably loving bride—
Sat snugly and modestly down by his side.
And when they went out
It was whispered about,
"She's the lovingest wife in the town beyond doubt;"
And every one swore, from pastor to clown,
They were the most affectionate couple in town.