The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Never mind what your mother may say:
She was always hard on the girls:
Your virtuous women have all a way
Of saying the bitterest things they may
About them and their curls.

It is different, now, with a man:
The better he is, I think,
He'll speak of young fellows the best that he can,
Though the rogues may be learning to curse and ban,
And play, too, and drink.

Well; that never struck me until
I said it, and yet it is true;
Good men could not do what your good women will,
And they call it a duty they have to fulfil
In pure love to you.

I am not good, myself, as you know,
And I never pretended to be;
And I've sometimes thought I was happier so
Than to purse up my mouth, and look glum as I go
At the things that I see.

But your mother is virtuous, lad;
Whatever she is, she is that;
A virtuous woman, for good or bad,
And she's fretting her soul, till it's really sad,
At this wooing you're at.

She won't let me rest till I speak
My mind on't, and here's what I say:
Maybe her reasons are poor and weak,
And she's hot and hysteric, and not very meek;
But she'll have her own way.

Don't insist upon your way, at least,
It was always my plan to give in,
And to make as if I would do as she pleased,
Till she cooled down a bit; for her keenness ceased
As she thought she would win.

Well; I know that she always meant
You, some day or other, should wed
That putty-faced doll of a baby-saint,
With her breath smelling ever so sickly and faint,
As if more than half-dead.

282

I am glad you are out of that mess;
It would never have turned out well:
She has not the breeding, the mouth, or the pace,
And what your mother can see in her face
I never could tell.

And it's right you should choose your own wife;
I did it, and every man should;
It is hard that another should tie you for life,
Maybe to bother, vexation, and strife:
Though she means it for good.

But you'd better give up your first “flame,”
Nearly every man does that I know;
Your mother is wild when I name but her name,
And it would not be nice for a girl, if she came
To be ill-treated so.

I allow she is quiet and good,
And handsome and ladylike too,
She can ride too, and talk and dress as she should,
And she is not at all of hysterical mood,
And you say she loves you.

But your mother can't bear her, you see;
That don't go for much, I admit;
Our mothers are fain we should always be
Still the small babies that sat on their knee,
Admiring their wit.

But I'm told she is older than you;
Of course, that's a matter of taste,
And old or young, they will always do
Just what they like; yet it's also true
You should not be in haste.

If she had but a trifle of cash!
I don't mind the two or three years;
They're not here or there; but it's something rash
To dive into wedlock, you see, with a splash,
When, for aught that appears,

You have not between you, I think,
Enough to pay for your tour;
And how you're to live, and to eat and drink,
Is more than I know; but it's all rose-pink
To-day, to be sure.

Now, I have not a shilling to spare,
Not a penny to play pitch-and-toss;
And you'd not like your mother to sit down with care
Before she is Dowager, and you are heir
Of the peat-hag and moss.

You must not count on me:
I never could keep out of debt;
But I'll leave you a name, and a family tree
Long held in honour, and bills two or three
That are not honoured yet.

There's the old coach I had to renew,
The horses not fit for the road,
And the cellar quite empty; and what could I do?
For the rents were all spent ere a guinea was due,
When I last went abroad.

You'd not wish to see me drive out
With a chaise, and a pair of old screws,
And bring from the grocer's a bottle of stout;
No, there's things one must have, and yet cannot, without
The help of the Jews.

283

But one should be able to do
Without luxuries, now, like books,
And pictures and china and ormolu,
And a wife that will always want something new,
For her handsome looks.

Have you thought at all how you're to live,
With taxes to pay, and your rent?
You may run into debt, and your tradesmen grieve;
With your name, you may borrow, although you must give
A heavy per cent.

But it's ticklish work doing that long,
And you can't trust the cards or the dice,
And betting without ready money is wrong;
And what can you do that is worth an old song,
When you've tried it twice?

A Lawyer that has but one brief,
A Doctor one patient who tends,
May marry, in hope that in turning the leaf,
By healing a fool, or releasing a thief,
He may make what the spends.

But there's no kind of work now for you,
And nothing to hope that I see,
Unless I should die for fond lovers and true,
Which is hard for a man in his sixties to do,
With but gout in his knee.

You must think of it better; and mind,
Not a word to your mother that's rough:
She is hot and hysterical, maybe, and blind,
But then she's your mother, and ever was kind;
And that is enough.