My Wife's Cousin.

Decked with shoes of blackest polish, And with shirt as white as snow, After early morning breakfast To my daily desk I go; First a fond salute bestowing On my Mary's ruby lips, Which, perchance, may be rewarded With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger Still my patient pen I drive, Thinking what a feast awaits me In my happy home at five; In my small one-storeyed Eden, Where my wife awaits my coming, And our solitary handmaid Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom, Then my hat I seize and vanish; Every trouble from my bosom, Every anxious care I banish. Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace I go, Till I reach my darling dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" Thus I cry, while yet afar; Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?— 'Tis the smoke of a cigar! Instantly into the parlour Like a maniac, I haste, And I find a young Life-Guardsman, With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing Most familiarly with hers; And I think my Brussels carpet Somewhat damaged by his spurs. "Fire and furies! what the blazes?" Thus in frenzied wrath I call; When my spouse her arms upraises, With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster, Ever such a wretched wife? Ah! how long must I endure it, How protract this hateful life? All day long, quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at home; And she cannot see her cousins, Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, Scarce vouchsafes a single word, But, with look of deadly menace, Claps his hand upon his sword; And in fear I faintly falter— "This your cousin, then he's mine! Very glad, indeed, to see you,— Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?— As a thing of course he stops; And with most voracious swallow Walks into my mutton-chops. In the twinkling of a bed-post Is each savoury platter clear, And he shows uncommon science In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him, Gurgling from the pewter pot; And he moves a counter motion For a glass of something hot. Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, Nor a moderate share of goes; But I know not why he's always Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning, From the counting-house I come, Do I find the young Life-Guardsman Smoking pipes and drinking rum. Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my meal; For I have a wholesome horror Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin, For my only son and heir Much resembles that young Guardsman, With the self-same curly hair; But I wish he would not always Spoil my carpet with his spurs; And I'd rather see his fingers In the fire, than touching hers.