Not Married Yet!

I'm single yet--I'm single yet!
    And years have flown since I came out!
In vain I sigh--in vain I fret--
    Ye gods! what are the men about?
I vow I'm twenty!--O ye powers!
    A spinster's lot is hard to bear--
On earth alone to pass her hours,
    And afterward lead apes--DOWN THERE!

No offer yet--no offer yet!
    I'm puzzled quite to make it out:
For every beau my cap I set--
    What, what, what ARE the men about?
They don't propose--they WON'T propose,
    For fear, perhaps, I'd not say, "Yes!"
Just let them try--for Heaven knows
    I'm tired of single-blessedness.

Not married yet--not married yet--
    The deuce is in the men, I fear!
I'm like a--something to be let,
    And to be LET ALONE--that's clear.
They say, "She's pretty--but no chink--
    And love without it runs in debt!"
It agitates my nerves to think
    That I have had no offer yet.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Nature's Nobleman. A Fragment.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

We Part For Ever

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Champions of Liberty.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Star of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Will Nobody Marry Me?

Heigh-ho! for a husband!--Heigh-ho!
    There's danger in longer delay!
Shall I never again have a beau?
    Will nobody marry me, pray!
I begin to feel strange, I declare!
    With beauty my prospects will fade--
I'd give myself up to despair
    If I thought I should die an old maid!

I once cut the beaux in a huff--
    I thought it a sin and a shame
That no one had spirit enough
    To ask me to alter my name.
So I turned up my nose at the short,
    And cast down my eyes at the tall;
But then I just did it in sport--
    And now I've no lover at all!

These men are the plague of my life:
    'Tis hard from so many to choose!
Should any one wish for a wife,
    Could I have the heart to refuse?
I don't know--for none have prop...

George Pope Morris

Grounds for Divorce.

                He.

What can a man do when a woman's perverse,
And determined to have her own way?

                She.

At the altar you took me for better or worse:
Am I worse than you took me for--say,
            Silly elf?--
Am I worse than you took me for, say?

                He.

For an angel I took you in beauty and worth--
The PRIEST a mere woman has given!

                She.

A MAN would prefer a true woman on earth,
To all the bright angels in heaven--
            Silly elf!--
To all the bright angels in heaven!

                He.

You are ever ready my feelings to hurt
At the veriest trifle, of course.

                She.

Forgetting a button to sew on your shirt<...

George Pope Morris

Address. For the benefit of William Dunlap.

(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe)




What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight!
What scene of splendor--conjured here to-night!
What voices murmur, and what glances gleam!
Sure 'tis some flattering unsubstantial dream.
The house is crowded--everybody's here
For beauty famous, or to science dear;
Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux,
Poets and painters--and Heaven only knows
Whom else beside!--And see, gay ladies sit
Lighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit--
(A fairy change--ah, pray continue it.)
Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes,
Full of the spirit of departed times;
Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight,
All gather round me on this brilliant night.
And welcome are ye all.    Not now ye come
To spea...

George Pope Morris

The Colonel.

The Colonel!--Such a creature!
    I met him at the ball!--
So fair in form and feature,
    And so divinely tall!
He praised my dimpled cheeks and curls,
    While whirling through the dance,
And matched me with the dark-eyed girls
    Of Italy and France!

He said, in accents thrilling--
    "Love's boundless as the sea;
And I, dear maid, am willing
    To give up all for thee!"
I heard him--blushed--"Would ask mamma"--
    And then my eyes grew dim!
He looked--I said, "Mamma--papa--
    I'd give up all for him!"

My governor is rich and old;
    This well the Colonel knew.
"Love's wings," he said, "when fringed with gold,
    Are beautiful to view!"
I thought his 'havior quite the ton,
    Until I saw him stare
When m...

George Pope Morris

Why Don't The Men Propose?

Why don't the men propose, mamma?
    Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
    And then away he goes;
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
    That everybody knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
    Yet, oh! they won't propose.

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
    To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons,
    I'm ever on the watch;
I've hopes when some distingue beau
    A glance upon me throws;
But though he'll dance and smile and flirt,
    Alas! he won't propose.

I've tried to win by languishing,
    And dressing like a blue;
I've bought big books and talked of them
    As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt
    The heads of all the ...

Thomas Haynes Bayly

Plea For Trigamy, A

I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal,
    And find that my tastes are so far from concise
That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll
                    Suffice

I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric
    Compression, but still, in defiance of force,
They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric
                    Discourse.

My first must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter,
    Proud, peerless, and perfect in fact, comme il faut;
A waltzer and wit of the very first water
                    For show.

But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous,
    Once face them alone in the family cot,
Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us)
                    They're not.

Owen Seaman