O' the same son got to be of middle age,
Sour, saturnine,—your humble servant here,—
When things grow cross and the young wife, he finds
Take to the window at a whistle's bid,
And yet demurs thereon, preposterous fool!—
Whereat the worthies judge he wants advice
And beg to civilly ask what's evil here,
Perhaps remonstrate on the habit they deem
He's given unduly to, of beating her:
... Oh, sure he beats her—why says John so else,