While my young brother, fresh from school, to show you how I’m teaz’d,
Said, “Frank, why what a ’muff’ you are, girls like their fingers squeez’d.”
How am I to get married? I shall never have a wife,
I could never make an offer, I’m convinced, to save my life;
There’s the “quizzing” by the sisters, and the “questions” by mamma,
And the “pumping” that one goes through, in the study, by papa;
Then there’s that horrid honey-moon, the journey with a bride,
And grinning post-boys looking back, and no one else inside;
Oh my, the very thought of it quite takes away my breath,
I’m certain, at the wedding, I should blush myself to death.