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The Benedicts think that their senses are small.
Whilst women affirm they have no sense at all,
But are curious compounds of very strange stuff,
Inflexible, hard, and exceedingly tough:-

The old ones have wigs, and the young ones have hair,
And they scent it, and curl it, and friz it with care,
And turn it to dark should it chance to be fair.

They are ramblers and wanderers, never at home,
Making sure of a welcome wherever they roam;
And every one knows that the Bachelor's den
Is a room set apart for these singular men-
A nook in the clouds, perhaps five by four,
With skylight, or no light, ghosts, goblins, and gloom,
And every where known as the Bachelor's Room.

These creatures, 'tis said, are not valued at all,
Except when the herb give a Bachelor's ball;
Then dress'd in their best, in their gold-broidered vest,
'Tis allowed, as a fact, that they act with much tact,
And they lisp out, "How do?" and they coo and they
sue,

And they smile for awhile, their guests to beguile,
Condescending and bending, for fear of offending:
Though inert, they expect to be pert, and to flirt,
And they turn and they twist, and are great hands at
whist;

And they whirl and they twirl-they whisk and are brisk, And they whiz and they quiz, and they spy with their eye,

And they sigh as they fly,

For they meet to be sweet, and are fleet on their feet,
Pattering, and flattering, and chattering-
Spluttering, and fluttering, and buttering-
Advancing, and glancing, and dancing, and prancing,

And bumping and jumping, and stumping, and thump-
Sounding and bounding around and around. [ing-
And sliding and gliding with minuet pace-
Pirouetting, and sitting with infinite grace.
They like dashing and flashing, lashing and splashing,
Racing and pacing, chasing and lacing;

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They are flittering and glittering, gallant and gay,
Yawning all morning, and lounging all day;
Love living in London, life loitering away

At their clubs in the dubs, or with beaux in the rows,
Or, what's propera, at the opera,

Reaching home in the morning-fie! fie, sirs, for shameAt an hour, for their sakes, I won't venture to name.

But when the bachelor-boy grows old,

And these butterfly days are past-
When threescore years their tale have told,
And the days are wet, and the nights are cold,
And something more is required than gold

His heart to cheer, and his hearth uphold-
When, in fact, he finds he's completely sold,-
And the world can grumble, and women can scold-
His sun setting fast, and his tale being told,
He then repents at last!

When he, at length, is an odd old man,
With no warmer friend than a warming-pan,
He is fidgety, fretful, and frowsty-in fine
Loves self, and his bed, and his dinner, and wine
And he rates and he prates, and reads and debates,
And abuses the world, and the women he hates,
And is cosing and prosing, and dozing all day,
And snoring, and roaring, and boring away,
And he's huffy, and stuffy, and puffy, and snuffy,
And musty, and fusty, and rusty, and crusty;
Sneezing, and wheezing, and teasing, and freezing,
And grumbling, and fumbling, and mumbling, and
stumbling;

Falling, and bawling, and crawling, and sprawling. Withering, and dithering, and quivering, and shivering,

Waking, and aching, and quaking and shaking,
Ailing, and wailing, and always bewailing,
Weary and dreary, and nothing that's cheery,
Groaning and moaning, his selfishness owning;
And crying and sighing, while lying and dying,
Grieving and heaving, though naught he is leaving
But wealth and ill-health, and his pelf, and himself.
Nobody grieves him, nobody sighs,
Nobody misses him, nobody cries;

For whether a fool, or whether he's wise,
Nobody grieves when a bachelor dies.

Now, gentlemen, mark me, for this is the life
That is led by a man never bless'd with a wife;
And this is the way that he yields up his breath
Attested by all who are in at the death.
Then he sends for a doctor to cure or to kill,
With his wonderful skill,

And a very big bill,

All of which is worth nil,

But who gives him offense, as well as a pill,
By dropping a hint about making his will;
For the game's up at last,
The grave die is cast,

Never was fretful antiquity mended-
So the lonely life of the bachelor's ended.

B

Bachelor's Hall.

ACHELOR'S Hall, what a quare-lookin' place it is!
Kape me from such all the days of my life!
Sure but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is,
Niver at all to be gettin' a wife.

Pots, dishes, pans, an' such grasy commodities,
Ashes and praty-skins, kiver the floor;
His cupboard s a storehouse of comical oddities,
Things that had niver been neighbors before.
Say the old bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough,
Placin' his tay-kettle over the fire;

Soon it tips over-Saint Patrick! he's mad enough,
If he were prisint, to fight with the squire !

He looks for the platter-Grimalkin is scourin' it! Sure, at a baste like that, swearin''s no sin;

His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are devourin' it-
Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in!

When his male's over, the table's left sittin' so;
Dishes, take care of yourselves if you can;
Divil a drop of hot water will visit ye,-

Och, let him alone for a baste of a man!

Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin',

Say the old bachelor kneeding his dough; Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin', How it would favor his palate, ye know!

Late in the night, when he goes to bed shiverin',
Niver a bit is the bed made at all;

He crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin';-
Bad luck to the pictur of Bachelor's Hall!
-John Finley.

E sat at the dinner table

HE

Grumbling Fim.

With a discontented frown;"The potatoes and steak were underdone,

The bread was baked too brown.

The pie too sour, the pudding too sweet,
And the roast was much too fat;
The soup so greasy, too, and salt;
Sure, 'twas hardly fit for the cat."

"I wish you could eat the bread and pies

I've seen my mother make;

They are something like, and 'twould do you good

Just to look at a loaf of her cake."

Said the smiling wife, "I'll improve with age,
Just now I'm but a beginner,
But your mother has come to visit,
And to-day she cooked the dinner."
-Anonymous.

The Song of the Housekeeper.

ING a song of cleaning house,

SIN

Pocket full of nails,

Four and twenty dustpans,

Scrubbing-brooms and pails, When the door is opened, Wife begins to sing :

'Just help me move this bureau here, And hang this picture; won't you dear? And tack that carpet by the door,

And stretch this one a little more,

And drive this nail, and screw this screw,

And here's a job I have for you—
This closet door will never catch,

I think you'll have to fix the latch ;
And oh, while you're about it, John,
I wish you'd put the cornice on,

And hang this curtain, when you're done.
I'll hand you up the other one;
This box has got to have a hinge
Before I can put on the fringe;

And won't you mend that broken chair?
I'd like a hook put up right there;
The bureau drawer must have a knob-
And here's another little job-

I really hate to ask you, dear— .
But could you put a bracket here ?"

And on it goes, when these are through,
With this and that and those to do,
Ad infinitum, and more too,

All in a merry jingle;

And isn't it enough to make

A man wish he was single? (Almost.)

Putting Up o' the Stove; or, the Rime of the Economical Householder.

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