Bad enough to be called an old maid,
But who would a bachelor be;
Who coddles himself upon slops,
Wine and whey, water gruel, and tea.
On the poor timid cat or the dog,
He vents his ill-humour and spite;
The cat runs away,—but the dog
Politely replies with—a bite.
Such a one as I just have described,
Whose portrait above meets the view:
(St. Valentine bids me declare)
Such an one, Mr. Coddle, are you.
At writing verse I'm no great scholar,
But here are wristbands and a collar;
And since a shirt is not the fashion,
With what I've sent you may now dash on;
A pair of stays that's nice and long,
Fully boned, and very strong;
A smelling bottle, nerves for bracing,
Lest you should faint with too tight lacing;
Some pins, some dowlass, and a glass,
So you an exquisite may pass;
Some mended stockings, cut in half,
With which you may adorn the calf,
And gratitude must e'er be thine,
For such a help, my Valentine.
For me to write first to declare an odd passion,
Is an odd thing, I know, but odd things are in fashion:
I have an odd heart, pray let me have thine,
And we'll make an odd pair, my odd Valentine.
We'll be odd and merry, not needing odd weather,
And ne'er have odd tempers when we are together;
But be oddly merry, and true to our vows;
And love no odd person so well as our spouse.
Pray send an odd line, if you like my odd plan,
Remember a bachelor is an odd man.
