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The Bachelors' Strike


Fun, I - 22nd July 1865

'Twas early in July,
  In eighteen sixty-five,
When a tribe of males from old Marseilles
  Declared they never would wive.

For they thought on the costly style
  Of shawls and bonnets and veils,
And they saw with amaze the expensive ways
  Of the damsels of old Marseilles

They vowed they'd marry no maid
  Unless she'd dress her more
In the cheap and chaste and simple taste
  Of two hundred years before.

But centuries twain before,
  As painted pictures show,
All dress was dear, and the bodies, I hear,
  Were worn extremely low.

But none of the men of Marseilles
  Had histories on their shelves;
But, strong in the heat of their blind conceit,
  They chuckled within themselves.

And there rose from old Marseilles
  A cry from the maiden crew,
"Six thousand head of girls to wed,
  And nobody comes to woo!

"Oh, come, ye knights of France,
  And knights of England true,
And teach these loons to dance to the tunes
  They'd have us dancing to!"

And three thousand British knights,
  And as many knights of France,
Came down on rails to old Marseilles
  To teach these cravens dance.

They smote them hip and thigh,
  And then each warrior true
Embraced his prize before the eyes
  Of the mercenary crew.

And having fairly done
  The task to them assigned,
Each rode away, as the stories say,
  With a maiden packed behind.

And the dreary, dreary tribe
  Of cravens are still alive,
Though years have gone by since that July,
  In eighteen sixty-five.

And none will make their beds,
  And none will scour and wipe,
And no little trippers will bring out their slippers,
  And fill their evening pipe.

And an awful story goes,
  That there's a stern decree,
That swear as they may, to their dying day,
  No button they e'er shall see!


So fools reject a prize,
  And, offered wealth, disdain it,
Because that they object to pay
  For the caskets that contain it.

So fools — such fools are they,
  They're scarcely worthy blaming —
Decline the care of a picture rare
  Because it involves a framing.

So many a fool we find
  So blindly wed to Mammon,
That the foolish flat begrudges the sprat
  That he knows will hook a salmon.

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