Oh, Prue she has a patient man,
And Joan a gentle lover,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love’s a rover!
Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
And honest as a briar,
Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,—
But my dear lad’s a liar!
Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
Are thick with Mig and Joan!
They bite their threads and shake their heads
And gnaw my name like a bone;
And Prue says, "Mine’s a patient man,
As never snaps me up,’
And Agatha, "Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup,’
Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell—
All one color, and clear—
And Mig’s no call to think at all
What’s to come next year,
While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That’s troubled with that and this;—
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the man I kiss!
Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough’s his choice,—
Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with knots in her voice, —
And Agatha will turn awake
While her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round,
For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
But peep who’s passing by,
Joan is paired with a putterer
That bastes and tastes and salts,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love is false!
