And the bridegroom is tearing his hair;
While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen,
Saying: “Goodness, what gabies we are,
Not to marry our exquisite cousin
To Young Lochinvar!”
Then the girl by her partner is beckoned
To the door, where a charger they find;
To the saddle he springs in a second,
And he lifts her up lightly behind;
“She is mine!” he announces, adjourning