V.THAT OF MATILDA.

Yes, I love you, dear Matilda,But you may not be my bride,And the obstacles are manyWhich have caused me to decide.Firstly, what ismostannoying,And I'm not above confessing,Is, that I think you indolent,And over-fond of dressing.I've known you spend an hour or twoIn a-sitting on a chair,And a-fussing and attendingTo your toilet or your hair.There's another little matter—You may say a simple thing—Yet, Matilda, I must own it,I object to hear you sing.For the sounds you make in singingAre soverymuch like squalling,That the only term appropriateTo them is caterwauling.Indeed, I've neverheardsuch horridNoises in my life,And I'dcertainlynot tolerateSuch singing in a wife.And, Matilda dear, your language!It is reallyverybad;The expressions which you use at times,They make me feel quite sad.It is very, very shocking,But I do not mind declaringThat I've heard some sounds proceedingFrom your lips so much like swearing,That I've had to raise a finger,And to close at leastoneear,For I couldn't feel quite certainWhatbad words I mightn't hear.

Yes, I love you, dear Matilda,

But you may not be my bride,

And the obstacles are many

Which have caused me to decide.

Firstly, what ismostannoying,

And I'm not above confessing,

Is, that I think you indolent,

And over-fond of dressing.

I've known you spend an hour or two

In a-sitting on a chair,

And a-fussing and attending

To your toilet or your hair.

There's another little matter—You may say a simple thing—Yet, Matilda, I must own it,I object to hear you sing.For the sounds you make in singingAre soverymuch like squalling,That the only term appropriateTo them is caterwauling.Indeed, I've neverheardsuch horridNoises in my life,And I'dcertainlynot tolerateSuch singing in a wife.

There's another little matter—

You may say a simple thing—

Yet, Matilda, I must own it,

I object to hear you sing.

For the sounds you make in singing

Are soverymuch like squalling,

That the only term appropriate

To them is caterwauling.

Indeed, I've neverheardsuch horrid

Noises in my life,

And I'dcertainlynot tolerate

Such singing in a wife.

And, Matilda dear, your language!It is reallyverybad;The expressions which you use at times,They make me feel quite sad.It is very, very shocking,But I do not mind declaringThat I've heard some sounds proceedingFrom your lips so much like swearing,That I've had to raise a finger,And to close at leastoneear,For I couldn't feel quite certainWhatbad words I mightn't hear.

And, Matilda dear, your language!

It is reallyverybad;

The expressions which you use at times,

They make me feel quite sad.

It is very, very shocking,

But I do not mind declaring

That I've heard some sounds proceeding

From your lips so much like swearing,

That I've had to raise a finger,

And to close at leastoneear,

For I couldn't feel quite certain

Whatbad words I mightn't hear.

But worse than this, Matilda:I hear, with pious grief,Many rumours that MatildaIs no better than a thiefAnd I'm shocked to find my darlingSo entirely lost to feeling,As to go and give her mind upUnto picking and a-stealing.Oh, Matilda! pray take warning,For a prison cell doth yearnFor a person that appropriatesAnd takes what isn't her'n.And the culminating blow is this:You stay out late at night.Now, Matilda dear, you must confessTo do this isnotright.Where you go to, dear, or what you do,There really isnotelling,And with rage and indignationMy fond foolish heart is swelling.Yet the faults which I've enumera-Ted can't be wondered at,When one realises clearlyThat "Matilda"—is acat.

But worse than this, Matilda:

I hear, with pious grief,

Many rumours that Matilda

Is no better than a thief

And I'm shocked to find my darling

So entirely lost to feeling,

As to go and give her mind up

Unto picking and a-stealing.

Oh, Matilda! pray take warning,

For a prison cell doth yearn

For a person that appropriates

And takes what isn't her'n.

And the culminating blow is this:You stay out late at night.Now, Matilda dear, you must confessTo do this isnotright.Where you go to, dear, or what you do,There really isnotelling,And with rage and indignationMy fond foolish heart is swelling.Yet the faults which I've enumera-Ted can't be wondered at,When one realises clearlyThat "Matilda"—is acat.

And the culminating blow is this:

You stay out late at night.

Now, Matilda dear, you must confess

To do this isnotright.

Where you go to, dear, or what you do,

There really isnotelling,

And with rage and indignation

My fond foolish heart is swelling.

Yet the faults which I've enumera-

Ted can't be wondered at,

When one realises clearly

That "Matilda"—is acat.

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