But what to do?—my temples ache
From evening’s dew till morning’s pearl,
What course to take my boy to make—
Oh could I make my boy—a girl!
CLUBS,
TURNED UP BY A FEMALE HAND.
“Clubs! Clubs! part ’em! part ’em! Clubs! Clubs!”—Ancient Cries of London.
F all the modern schemes of Man,
That time has brought to bear,
A plague upon the wicked plan
That parts the wedded pair!
My female friends they all agree
They hardly know their hubs;
And heart and voice unite with me,
“We hate the name of Clubs!”
One selfish course the Wretches keep;
They come at morning chimes,
To snatch a few short hours of sleep—
Rise—breakfast—read the Times—
Then take their hats, and post away,
Like Clerks or City scrubs,
And no one sees them all the day,—
They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!
On what they say, and what they do,
They close the Club-House gates;
But one may guess a speech or two,
Though shut from their debates:
“The Cook’s a hasher—nothing more—
The Children noisy grubs—
A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”—
Yes,—that’s the style at Clubs!
With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse,
And such Domestic Books,
They once put up—but now, alas!
It’s hey! for foreign cooks!
“When will you dine at home, my Dove?”
I say to Mister Stubbs,—
“When Cook can make an omelette, love,—
An omelette like the Clubs!”
Time was, their hearts were only placed
On snug domestic schemes,
The book for two—united taste,—
And such connubial dreams,—
Friends dropping in at close of day
To singles, doubles, rubs,—
A little music—then the tray—
And not a word of Clubs!