W.—I’ll raise my voice, Mog, louder still,
As sure as you were born,
Why should you ask “How many loaves
Came from the peck of corn?”
H.—Should not the master of the house
Know every undertaking?
W.—And wear his wife’s own crinoline,
And try his hand at baking!
H.—The breeches you would like to wear!
W.—What vulgar jests you’re making!
H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, don’t speak so loud,
Your noise will stun the cattle!
W.—The only noise that could do that
Is your continued rattle.
H.—As sounds a bee upon her back,
So does this wasp I’ve got,
And all because I ask’d if she
Had fed the pigs or not.
W.—Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse,
Yes, ten times worse and more,
Still asking, “How this churning gave
Less than the one before?”
H.—You know the butter pays our rent,
And many another matter.