When faith in man is given up—
How plaguey shiftless are some women!
Then sorrow fills her bitter cup—
I’ll have to get my other linen.
And to its lees the white lips quaff—
Smith says he’s coming in to-night,
While Malice yields her mocking laugh!—
With Mrs. S., and Jones and Wright.
Oh! could I stifle in my breast—
And Jones will bring some prime old sherry.