* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore,
And perspiration and black-lead stream from his every pore;
Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,
He cries, “Where, my good angel, shall I put this blessed stove?”
And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot,
And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that he looks hot,
And now comes in the sweat o’ the day; the Brown holds in his gripe
And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe;
He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfully
Tells him how she would manage if only she were he.