Page 82 - Poetry-Romance

The Absurdity of It

It is all very well,
For the poets to tell,
By way of their songs adorning,
Of milkmaids who rose
To manipulate cows,
At five o’clock in the morning.
And of mooney young mowers
Who bundle out doors—
The charms of their straw-bed scorning—
Before brake of day,
To make love and hay,
At five o’clock in the morning!

But between me and you,
It is all untrue—
Believe not a word they utter;
To no milkmaid alive,
Does the fingers of five,
Bring beaux—or even bring butter.
The poor sleepy cows,
If told to arose,
Would do so, perhaps, in a horning;
But the sweet country girls,
Would they show their curls
At five o’clock in the morning?

It may not be wrong
For the man in the song—
Or the moon—if anxious to settle,
To kneel in wet grass,
And pop; but alas!
What if he popped down on a nettle?
For how could he see
What was under his knee,
If, in spite of his friendly warning,
he went out of bed,
And his house and his head,
At five o’clock in the morning?

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