Yes, kneel, man, kneel, and look sheepishly wise,
And force a few tears through your crocodile eyes,
From your heart of steel;
Then look like a hypocrite—just what you are,
In the posture, but not in the spirit of prayer;
Still kneel, man, kneel!
And smite, man, smite your treacherous breast,
Whilst swearing, as usual, you vow and protest
That your heart is right:
But remember, last year, you did just the same,
And swore that your heart it was all in a flame;
So smite, man, smite!
And weep, man, weep, till your cheeks are sore
With the briny fluid, that shall rapidly pour
From your eyes so fine:
Yet when, man, when you've done smiting and kneeling,
Weeping, sighing, and dying, with exquisite feeling,
You'll ne'er be mine.
Ah! Simon Selfish, lack-a-day,
Methinks I hear the people say,
Here comes the sorry elf,
The man who rarely gets a bone
To pick, but chums his crust alone,
That moulders on the shelf.
Behold him in his nook, I ween,
Where any thing but comfort's seen,
Around his dingy hole;
Anon he darns his tatter'd hose,
Or cleans a napkin for his nose,
The groom of his own stool!
'Tis passing strange, the secret's out,
Why who would pair with such a lout,
With ideas unrefin'd;—
Neglected and despis'd you live,
While inly to yourself you grieve,
The fair are so unkind.
