W.—I know that if the cows are starved
They won’t get any fatter!
H.—I give the cows enough to eat.
W.—Well do, and hold your clatter.
H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise,
’Twould shame a barrel organ.
W.—If I were half as loud as you,
I think it would, Old Morgan!
H.—Your temper, Jane, will drive me soon
To share a soldier’s lot,
To march with gun and martial tune
’Midst powder, smoke, and shot.
W.—What! you a soldier? never, Mog!
Your heart is coward too,
You’ll fight with no one but with me,
You’ve then enough to do!
H.—I’ll go and fight the mighty Czar,
To aid the Turkish nation.
W.—Then go, a greater Turk than you
Breathes not within creation!
H.—For shame, to call your husband Turk.