To sing of human happiness, when all is peace and piping,
Or laugh at love and handkerchiefs, when eyelids need no wiping,
Is but to mock the cruel pangs that now my heart is tearing,
And smuder up the hearty groans that’s rowling for a hearing:
Och! if I had my paice of mind, that cruel piece of plunder,
I’d let the jades die wrinkled maids, and then they’d see their blunder.
The lovely craturs every one are jewels of perfection,
And mighty need they have, indeed, of comfort and protection;
But I, who’d be their guardian through each future generation;
Am treated like the blackguard scamps that roam about the nation.
Oh paice, throughout the wholesome day, and I, have long been strangers,
And all the night, in woful plight, I dream of fearful dangers.
Where’er I turn my aching eyes for paice or consolation,
Some cheek, or eye, or lip, or brow, works further tribulation—
Och, murther but it seams my fate, that someone will tormint me—
Whene’er I turn me round from one, another is fornint me;
The saucy flirts, if but a word I’d speak of adoration,
With 'Sur!' as sharp’s a sword, they’d cut the thread of conversation.
No wonder that the married wives are happy and contented,
Sure of her vows no decent spouse has ever yet repented;
Whate’er they want their husbands grant, that's fitting for their station,
While nought they do, ’tween me and you, but raising botheration.
Then let the female sex now learn to know what now their needing,
Nor screw their pretty mouths to No, when Yes would show their breeding.