Though it must be allowed
    The lady was proud,
She’d have no maid about her the dear lady vowed: 
    So for Mr. McNair
    The wear and the fare
She made it a care of her own to prepare. 
I think I may guess, being married myself,
That the cause was not solely the saving of pelf.

    As for her, I’ll declare,
    Though raven her hair,
Though her eyes were so dark and her body so slim,
She hadn’t a thought for a man but him.

    From three to nine,
    Invited to dine,
Oft met at the house of the pair divine: 
Her husband—­and who, by the way, was well able—­
Did all the “agreeable” done at the table;
While she—­most remarkably loving bride—­
Sat snugly and modestly down by his side. 
    And when they went out
    It was whispered about,
“She’s the lovingest wife in the town beyond doubt;”
And every one swore, from pastor to clown,
They were the most affectionate couple in town.

    Yes; Mrs McNair
    Was modest and fair;
She never fell into a pout or a fret;
    And Mr. McNair
    Was her only care
  And indeed her only pet. 
The few short hours he spent at his store
She spent sewing or reading the romancers’ lore;
    And whoever came
   It was always the same
With the modest lady that opened the door.

But there came to town
    One Captain Brown
    To spend a month or more. 
    Now this same Captain Brown
    Was a man of renown,
And a dashing blue coat he wore;
    And a bright, brass star. 
    And a visible scar
On his brow—­that he said he had got in the war
    As he led the van: 
    (He never ran!)
In short, he was the “General’s” right-hand man,
And had written his name on the pages of fame. 
    He was smooth as an eel,
    And rode so genteel
That in less than a week every old maid and dame
Was constantly lisping the bold Captain’s name.

    Now Mr. McNair,
    As well as the fair,
Had a “bump of reverence” as big as a pear,
    And whoever like Brown
    Had a little renown,
And happened to visit that rural town,
Was invited of course by McNair—­to “go down.”

    So merely by chance,
    The son of the lance
Became the bold hero of quite a romance: 
For Mrs. McNair thought him wonderful fair,
And that none but her husband could with him compare. 
Half her timidity vanished in air
The first time he dined with herself and McNair. 
    Now the Captain was arch
    In whiskers and starch
And preferred, now and then, a gay waltz to a march. 
A man, too, he was of uncommon good taste;
Always “at home” and never in haste,
And his manners and speech were remarkably chaste. 
    To tell you in short
    His daily resort
He made at the house of “his good friend McNair,”
Who (’twas really too bad) was so frequently