They say, Brig. Roberts, you have seven wives,
And every one a beauty! As to that
I’m not informed; in the domestic hives
Of Utah, where I’ve sometimes hung my hat,
Not all the dames were comely. Like a cat
That has nine lives and must support them all,
You have to hustle round a bit, I fancy.
Now don’t you really agree with Paul
That women are the devil?—even Nancy
And Mary Jane and Caroline and Ella
And Ruth and Adeline and Isabella!
If I had half as many wives as you
(That’s three wives and a half as I compute)
I hardly know what I’d be driven to.
I might in desperation play the flute,
Or Congress find in me a raw recruit.
Then, I suppose, the country would uprise
And say the things I least should care to hear:
And virtuous editors would damn my eyes,
And cartilaginous virgins pain my ear.
And now and then some pious person clamor,
Blessed with one wife, ten wenches and no grammar.
All that and more you’re suffering, my friend,
For, having married all the maids you saw,
You contumaciously refuse to bend
A corrigible back to altered law
And leave them (all but one) lamenting. Pshaw!
Don’t be so squeamish. Yes, the children may
Lament a little too when made acquainted
With their mischance in being put away,
And your own countenance with shame be painted;
But that’s the smallest price for which we’ll sell
A seat in Congress and a bed in Hell.