The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems

by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Yes; Mrs McNair
Was modest and fair;
She never fell into a pout or a fret;
And Mr. McNair
Was her only care
And indeed her only pet.
The few short hours he spent at his store
She spent sewing or reading the romancers' lore;
And whoever came
It was always the same
With the modest lady that opened the door.

But there came to town
One Captain Brown
To spend a month or more.
Now this same Captain Brown
Was a man of renown,
And a dashing blue coat he wore;
And a bright, brass star.
And a visible scar
On his brow—that he said he had got in the war
As he led the van:
(He never ran!)
In short, he was the "General's" right-hand man,
And had written his name on the pages of fame.
He was smooth as an eel,
And rode so genteel
That in less than a week every old maid and dame
Was constantly lisping the bold Captain's name.

Now Mr. McNair,
As well as the fair,
Had a "bump of reverence" as big as a pear,
And whoever like Brown
Had a little renown,
And happened to visit that rural town,
Was invited of course by McNair—to "go down."

So merely by chance,
The son of the lance
Became the bold hero of quite a romance:
For Mrs. McNair thought him wonderful fair,
And that none but her husband could with him compare.
Half her timidity vanished in air
The first time he dined with herself and McNair.
Now the Captain was arch
In whiskers and starch
And preferred, now and then, a gay waltz to a march.
A man, too, he was of uncommon good taste;
Always "at home" and never in haste,
And his manners and speech were remarkably chaste.
To tell you in short
His daily resort
He made at the house of "his good friend McNair,"
Who ('twas really too bad) was so frequently out
When the Captain called in "just to see him" (no doubt)
But Mrs. McNair was so lonely—too bad;
So he chatted and chattered and made her look glad.
And many a view
Of his coat of blue,
All studded with buttons gilt, spangled and new,
The dear lady took
Half askance from her book,
As she modestly sat in the opposite nook.
Familiarly he
And modestly she
Talked nonsense and sense so strangely commingled,
That the dear lady's heart was delighted and tingled.
A man of sobriety
Renown and variety
It could not be wrong to enjoy his society:
O was it a sin
For him to "drop in,"
And sometimes to pat her in sport on the chin?

Dear Ladies, beware;
Dear Ladies, take care—
How you play with a lion asleep in his lair:
"Mere trifling flirtations"—these arts you employ?
Flirtations once led to the siege of old Troy;
And a woman was in
For the sorrow and sin
And slaughter that fell when the Greeks tumbled in;
Nor is there a doubt, my dears, under the sun,
But they've led to the sack of more cities than one.
I would we were all
As pure as Saint Paul
That we touched not the goblet whose lees are but gall;
But if so we must know where a flirtation leads;
Beware of the fair and look out for our heads.
Remember the odious,
Frail woman, Herodias
Sent old Baptist John to a place incommodious,
And prevailed on her husband to cut off his head
For an indiscreet thing the old Nazarite said.

Day in and day out
The blue coat was about;
And the dear little lady was glad when he came
And began to be talkative, tender and tame.
Then he gave her a ring, begged a curl of her hair,
And smilingly whispered her—"don't tell McNair."
She dropped her dark eyes
And with two little sighs
Sent the bold Captain's heart fluttering up to the skies.

Then alas—
What a pass!
He fell at the feet of the lady so sweet,
And swore that he loved her beyond his control—
With all his humanity—body and soul!
The lady so frail
Turned suddenly pale,
Then—sighed that his love was of little avail;
For alas, the dear Captain—he must have forgot—
She was tied to McNair with a conjugal knot.
But indeed
She agreed—
Were she only a maid he alone could succeed;
But she prayed him by all that is sacred and fair,
Not to rouse the suspicion of Mr. McNair.

'Twas really too bad,
For the lady was sad:
And a terrible night o't the poor lady had,
While Mr. McNair wondered what was the matter,
And endeavored to coax, to console and to flatter.
Many tears she shed
That night while in bed
For she had such a terrible pain in her head!
"My dear little pet, where's the camphor?" he said;
"I'll go for the doctor—you'll have to be bled;
I declare, my dear wife, you are just about dead."

"O no, my dear;
I pray you don't fear,
Though the pain, I'll admit, is exceeding severe.
I know what it is—I have had it before—
It's only neuralgia: please go to the store
And bring me a bottle of 'Davis's Pain-
Killer,' and I shall be better again."
He sprang out of bed
And away he sped
In his gown for the cordial to cure her head,
Not dreaming that Cupid had played her a trick—
The blind little rogue with a sharpened stick.
I confess on my knees
I have had the disease;
It is worse than the bites of a thousand fleas;
And the only cure I have found for these ills
Is a double dose of "Purgative Pills."
He rubbed her head—
And eased it, she said;
And he shrugged and shivered and got into bed.
He slept and he snored, but the poor lady's pain,
When her lord slept soundly, came on again.
It wore away
However by day
And when Brown called again she was smiling and gay;
But alas, he must say—to the lady's dismay—
In the town of his heart he had staid out his stay,
And must leave for his regiment with little delay.

Now Mrs. McNair
Was tall and fair,
Mrs. McNair was slim,
But the like of Brown was so wonderful rare
That she could not part with him.
Indeed you can see it was truly a pity,
For her husband was just going down to the city,
And Captain Brown—
The man of renown—
Could console her indeed were he only in town.
So McNair to the city the next Monday hied,
And left bold Captain Brown with his modest young bride.