The Wit and Humor of America, Volume V - Marshall Pinckney Wilder

Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
        As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
        On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night,
        Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
        And the gas-lamp's steady burning.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
        Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
        With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said,
        And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
        And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about,
        With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
        With only half our trying.

Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
        And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
        In the house where his wife conveyed him.

But our hearty task at length was done,
        When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
        The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,
        We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
        But we left him alone with his woman.

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church;
A thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch.
"Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them;
But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them.
                        "Vanity, oh, vanity!
                        Young maids, beware of vanity!"
                        Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee,
                        Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes,
Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the thrushes;
And when that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass,
They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass.
                        All because the buff-coat Bee
                        Lectured them so solemnly
                        "Vanity, oh, vanity!
                        Young maids, beware of vanity!"

This is a simple song, 'tis true
        My songs are never over-nice,
And yet I'll try and scatter through
        A little pinch of good advice.
Then listen, pompous friend, and learn
        To never boast of much renown,
For fortune's wheel is on the turn,
        And some go up and some come down.

I know a vast amount of stocks,
        A vast amount of pride insures;
But Fate has picked so many locks
        I wouldn't like to warrant yours.
Remember, then, and never spurn
        The one whose hand is hard and brown,
For he is likely to go up,
        And you are likely to come down.

Another thing you will agree,
        (The truth may be as well confessed)
That "Codfish Aristocracy"
        Is but a scaly thing at best.
And Madame in her robe of lace,
        And Bridget in her faded gown,
Both represent a goodly race,
        From father Adam handed down.

Life is uncertainfull of change;
        Little we have that will endure;
And 't were a doctrine new and strange
        That places high are most secure;
And if the fickle goddess smile,
        Yielding the scepter and the crown,
'Tis only for a little while,
        Then B. goes up and A. comes down.

This world, for all of us, my friend
        Hath something more than pounds and pence;
Then let me humbly recommend,
        A little use of common sense.
Thus lay all pride of place aside,
        And have a care on whom you frown;
For fear you'll see him going up,
        When you are only coming down.