But former comforts they condemn;
French kickshaws they discuss,
They take their wine, the wine takes them,
And then they favour us:—
From some offence they can’t digest,
As cross as bears with cubs,
Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best—
That’s how they come from Clubs!
It’s very fine to say “Subscribe
To Andrews’—can’t you read?”
When Wives, the poor neglected tribe,
Complain how they proceed!
They’d better recommend at once
Philosophy and tubs,—
A woman need not be a dunce
To feel the wrong of Clubs.
A set of savage Goths and Picts,
Would seek us now and then—
They’re pretty pattern-Benedicts
To guide our single men!
Indeed my daughters both declare
“Their Beaux shall not be subs.
To White’s, or Black’s, or anywhere,—
They’ve seen enough of Clubs!”
They say, “without the marriage ties,
They can devote their hours
To catechize or botanize—
Shells, Sunday Schools, and flow’rs—
Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,
Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,
Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds—
As Wives do since the Clubs.”
Alas! for those departed days
Of social wedded life,
When married folks had married ways,
And lived like Man and Wife!
Oh! Wedlock then was pick’d by none—
As safe a lock as Chubb’s!
But couples, that should be as one,
Are now the Two of Clubs!
Of 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 allow
They meet with slights, and snubs,
And say, “They have no husbands now,—
They’re married to their Clubs!”
THE UNITED FAMILY.
“We stick at nine.”—Mrs. Battle.
“Thrice to thine
And thrice to mine,
And thrice again,
To make up nine.”
—The Weird Sisters in Macbeth.