Poems And Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

My little wife has two merry black eyes,
Sweet little, dear little, daisy-faced Jane;
And fifty young lads always deemed her a prize,
And blamed the kind creature for causing them pain.
They all knew her pretty,
And some thought her witty,
But sware of sound sense she was faultless and free,
Because the fair scoffer
Refused every offer,
And secretly cherished affection for me.

My little wife has a cheek-dimpling smile,
Sweet little, dear little, lily-browed Jane;
A blithe buoyant nature that cares not for toil—
So how could the poor lads from loving refrain?

In spite of her scorning,
They wooed night and morning:
“The wild little coquette,” they cried, “is heart-free!”
Nor dreamed that she, weeping
While others were sleeping,
Oft hopelessly cherished affection for me.

My little wife weekly to the church came,
Sweet little, dear little, mellow-voiced Jane;
Where I, filled with equal devotional flame,
Would glance at her fair face again and again.
Sometimes an emotion,
Not wholly devotion,
A dim nameless thrill, o'er my senses would flee,
And then, growing bolder,
I dared to behold her,
And wish that such sweetness would once think of me.

My little wife often round the church hill,
Sweet little, dear little, neat-footed Jane,
Walked slowly, and lonely, and thoughtful, until
The afternoon bell chimed its call o'er the plain.

And nothing seemed sweeter
To me than to meet her,
And tell her what weather 'twas likely to be,
My heart the while glowing,
The selfish wish growing,
That all her affections were centred in me.

My little wife once ('tis strange, but 'tis true),
Sweet little, dear little, love-troubled Jane,
So deeply absorbed in her day-dreaming grew,
The bell chimed and ceased, yet she heard not its strain;
And I, walking near her
(May love ever cheer her
Who thinks all such wandering of sin void and free),
Strove hard to persuade her
That He who had made her
Had destined her heart-love for no one but me.

My little wife—well, perhaps this was wrong—
Sweet little, dear little, warm-hearted Jane,
Sat on the hill-side till her shadow grew long,
Nor tired of the preacher that thus could detain.

I argued so neatly,
And proved so completely
That none but poor Andrew her husband could be,
She smiled when I blessed her,
And blushed when I kissed her,
And owned that she loved and would wed none but me.

My little wife is not always quite sure—
Sweet little, dear little, hearth-cheering Jane—
That joy will not tarry where people are poor,
But only where Wealth and her satellites reign.
In each baby-treasure
She finds a new pleasure:
If purse and demand should by chance disagree,
She smiles, bravely humming,
“A better time's coming,”
And trusts in good health, in the future, and me.