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 beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
    And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought
    That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferred
    A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisped out nought beyond
    Plain "yesses" or plain "noes,"
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
    Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout
    I heard Sir Henry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I propose again,"
    I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
    I blushed like any rose;
But oh! I found 'twas only at
    Ecarte he'd propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?
    Oh, what is to be done?
I really have no time to lose,
    For I am thirty-one;
At balls I am too often left
    Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why don't the men propose, mamma?
    Why won't the men propose?