My wife loathes pickled pork, and I hate ham;
I doat on pancakes—she likes fritters:
And thus, alas! just like my morning dram,
The evening of my life is dash'd with bitters!
Old as we are, the ninnyhammer wants
To teach me French,—and I won't learn it:
My nightly path, where e'er I roam, she haunts,
And grudges me my glass, though well I earn it.

The other day, while sitting back to back,
She roused me from my short, sweet slumbers,
By taxing me at such a rate, good lack!
And summing up her griefs in these sad numbers:—

“Though you lay your head thus against mine,
You hate me, you brute, and you know it
But why not in secret repine,
Instead of delighting to shew it?—

You question my knowledge of French,
And won't believe 'rummage' is cheese;—
Why can't you look cool on 'the wench?'
To me you're all shiver-de-freeze!
“When around you quite fondly I've clung,
You have oftentimes said in a rage,—
'Such folly may do for the young,
But I take it to be bad-in-age!'

A reticule-bag if I buy,
(A trifle becoming each belle,)
'At Jericho, madam,' you cry,—
'I wish you and your bag-at-elle!
“When I had in some cordials, so rich!—
With letters all labell'd quite handy;
Says you, 'I'll inquire, you old witch,
If O D V doesn't mean brandy!'

Whenever I sink to repose,
You rouse me, you wretch! with a sneeze;
And, lastly, if I doze-a-doee,
To wex me, you just wheeze-a-wheeze?