The Universal Reciter - Various

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he's got to going down into the cellar and trying to sing "No one to love" in the coal-bin; and he like to scared the hired girl out of her senses, so that she went upstairs and had a fit on the kitchen door-mat, and came near dying on my hands.

      Mrs. W. That's not true, Mr. Wil—

      Mr. W. And never came to until I put her head under the hydrant. And then what does Bucephalus Alexander do but go round, night before last, and try to serenade the girl, until the old man histed up the sash and cracked away at Bucephalus Alexander with an old boot, and hit him in the face and blacked his eye, because he thought it was two cats a-yelping. Hang such a mother as you are! You go right to work to ruin your offspring.

      Mrs. W. You're talking nonsense, Wilk—

      Mr. W. You're about as fit to bring up children as a tadpole is to run a ferry boat, you are! But while I'm alive Mary Jane takes no singing lessons. Do you understand? It's bad enough to have her battering away at that piano like she had some grudge against it, and to have her visitors wriggle around and fidget and look miserable, as if they had cramp colic, while you make her play for them and have them get up and lie, and ask what it was, and say how beautiful it is, and steep their souls in falsehood and hypocrisy all on account of you. You'll have enough sins to answer for, old woman, without that.

      Mrs. W. I never did such a thing, and you—

      Mr. W. Yes—and you think Mary Jane can play, don't you? You think she can sit down and jerk more music than a whole orchestra, don't you? But she can't. You might about as well set a crowbar to opening oysters as set her to playing on that piano. You might, indeed!

      Mrs. W. You talk like a fool, Wilkins!

      Mr. W. Play! She play? Pshaw! Why, she's drummed away at that polka for six months and she can't get her grip on it yet. You might as well try to sing a long-metre hymn to "Fisher's Hornpipe," as to undertake to dance to that polka. It would jerk your legs out at the sockets, certain, or else it would give you St. Vitus' dance, and cripple you for life.

      Mrs. W. Mr. Wilkins, I'm going to tell you a secret.

      Mr. W. Oh! I don't want to hear your secrets—keep them to yourself.

      Mrs. W. It's about Mary Jane's singing.

      Mr. W. What?

      Mrs. W. Mary Jane, you know—her singing.

      Mr. W. I don't know, and I don't want to; she shan't take lessons, so dry up.

      Mrs. W. But she shall take them!

      Mr. W. I say she shan't!

      Mrs. W. She shall, and you can't help it.

      Mr. W. By George! What do you mean? I'm master in this house I'd like you to know.

      Mrs. W. Yes—but she's been taking lessons for a whole quarter, while you were down town, and I paid the bill out of the market money.

      Mr. W. Well! I hope I may be shot! You don't mean to say that? Well, if you ain't a perfectly abandoned wretch, hang me! Farewell, Mrs. Wilkins, farewell! I'm off by the first express-train for the West! I'll stop at Chicago, where the cars wait fifteen minutes for refreshments and a divorce—I'll take the divorce, that will be indeed refreshing! Farewell! F-a-r-e-well! Fare-r-r-r-r-r-r-well! Mrs. Wil-l-l-l-l-l-l-kins!

       Table of Contents

      WM. JULIUS MICKLE.

      THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE

       CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

      A

      ND are ye sure the news is true?

      And are ye sure he's weel?

      Is this a time to think o' wark?

      Make haste, lay by your wheel;

      Is this a time to spin a thread,

      When Colin's at the door?

      Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

      And see him come ashore.

      For there's nae luck about the house,

      There's nae luck at a';

      There's little pleasure in the house

      When our gudeman's awa'.

      And gie to me my bigonet,

      My bishop's satin gown;

      For I maun tell the baillie's wife,

      That Colin's in the town.

      My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

      My stockings pearly blue;

      It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

      For he's baith leal and true.

      Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

      Put on the mukle pot;

      Gie little Kate her button gown

      And Jock his Sunday coat;

      And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

      Their hose as white as snaw;

      It's a' to please my own gudeman,

      For he's been long awa.

      There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

      Been fed this month and mair;

      Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

      That Colin weel may fare;

      And mak our table neat and clean,

      Let everything look braw,

      For wha can tell how Colin fared

      When he was far awa?

      Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

      His breath like caller air;

      His very foot has music in't

      As he comes up the stair.

      And shall I see his face again?

      And shall I hear him speak?

      I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

      In troth I'm like to greet!

      The cold blasts o' the winter wind,

      That thirléd through my heart,

      They're a' blown by, I hae him safe,

      'Till death we'll never part;

      But what puts parting in my head?

      It may be far awa!

      The present moment is our ain,

      The neist we never saw.

      Since Colin's weel, and weel content,

      I hae nae mair to crave;

      And gin I live to keep him sae,

      I'm blest aboov the lave.

      And will I see his face again?

      And will I hear him speak?

      I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

      In troth I'm like to greet.

      For there's nae luck about the house,

      There's nae lack at a';

      There's little pleasure in the house

      When

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