Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,
Boldly woo, and, not aside,
Civil they will be to-morrow,
And thou thus wilt win thy bride.
’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—
Give, then, the musicians gold;
Though thou wish them at the devil,
Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.
Give a prince his meed of laurel,
Of a woman speak not ill;
With thy sausages don’t quarrel
When thou hast a sow to kill.
If the church to thee is hateful,
All the more attend its shrine;
To the parson be thou grateful,
Send him, too, a flask of wine.
If an itching chance to teaze thee,
Like a man of honour, scratch;
If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,
Slippers get with all despatch.
If thy soup has too much seasoning,
Be not in an angry mood;
Smiling say, instead of reasoning:
“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”
If thy wife a wish expresses
For a shawl, straight buy her two;
Buy her golden brooches, dresses,
Lace and jewels not a few.
If thou’lt give this plan a trial,
Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain
Heaven to bless thy self-denial,
And on earth to peace attain.