Each joy divided, and each sorrow known,
And met with kindred feeling all its own.
Thus time wore on, as yet no bird had come
Congenial partner of her heart and home.
A dreary void her "bosom's lord" besets,
A life is her's of sighs and vain regrets;
At last, in happy hour, one draweth near,
Whose warbled notes fall sweetly on her ear,
With fluttering plumage see he gains her side,
And once again the Widowed Bird's a bride.
Impromptu.
On a young lady's expressing her intention of marrying a gentleman, who she herself confessed had few qualifications beyond the possession of four hundred and fifty pounds per annum.
Any young man good looking, whose income is clear
The sum of four hundred and fifty a year,
May address the fair Charlotte without any fear,
But he must have four hundred and fifty a year.
She says, and methinks the assertion sounds queer,
All depends on four hundred and fifty a year,
That if a large family folks are to rear,
It makes a hole in four hundred and fifty a year.
Says, few joys are by Providence granted us here,
But grow out of four hundred and fifty a year,
That connubial horizons at all times are clear,
If backed by four hundred and fifty a year.
