Too happy is that man, you say,
Who, from his pleasure, runs away;
Pronouncing him a stupid sinner,
Who, hungry, runs away from dinner.

A married life's the hight of bliss;
We'll have it, whether hit or miss.
We're happy when another marries,
Though we suppose the man miscarries.
We've drawn the cork, and tasted gall;
Glad to lead others in the thrawl.
For who would not rejoice to see
His neighbour sink as well as he?

No gloomy thoughts come to perplex us
Upon a union of the sexes.
Of all the trades that England bless,
The wedding trade is wish'd success,

We'll now the envied memoirs write
Of Jenny Parker--Thomas Knight;
For never, to the end of life,
While he was husband, she was wife,
One angry word between them pass'd,
After the parson tied them fast;
An even stream, unting'd with mud,
Without an ebb, without a flood.
Would ever loving couple miss
To try a state so full of bliss?
The bacon-flitch, you'd think, was won;
Nay, hold! my friend, I've not yet done.

If you his native place enquire,
He breath'd his first in Devonshire;
By combing wool supported life;
And now and then he took a wife.
Nor did he lose, by death, his flock,
But still kept adding to the stock.
By busy Fame this news was carried,
'That Thomas seven wives had married!'
Which number, for aught he could tell,
Were all at once alive and well.
An able stallion oft appears,
Leading a team of breeding mares.

As combing he took no delight in,
He chose to change the scene for fighting.
If we allow of freedom still,
A man may change to what he will.

Tom was well-wade, surpass'd most men,
Compleatly measur'd five feet ten;
Enlisted in the Inniskilling;
To fight and swear was always willing.

The regiment now must change its ground,
And in old Derby quarters found.
With certainty the date I fix
'Twas seventeen hundred thirty-six.

One silkmill girl I bring to view,
Who'd all the impudence of two;
The softness of her sex forgot,
But all their daring rudeness not.
Nothing the female could denote,
But that she wore a petticoat.
Yet Jane, it must be owned, had merit;
Held a full share of tongue and spirit;
For, should a man a word misplace,
With open hand she'd slap his face.
A woman was beneath her slap,
For instantly she'd pull her cap.

Was old enough to be a bride;
Had some accomplishments beside;
Could swear and kick, and scold at will;
Yet entertain a regiment still.

Ah, luckless I! when in minority,
She lugg'd my ears without authority--

'For, in whatever hand is might,'
The proverb says, 'will conquer right;'
And though her hand was not divine,
Pain and submission must be mine.
She, after sixty years, ne'er thought
She'd nobly in a song be brought.

Now, whether freeman or a slave,
Who plays at bowls must rubbers have.
To Tom of pregnancy she spoke;
For he's the man must find a cloak.
This privilege is hers at least--
Of fifty she can chuse the best.
For a whole troop could throw abuse at:
The modest girl's but one to chuse at.

Tom curs'd and swore at her amain;
She curs'd and swore at him again.
Thus we as book-keepers have done,
Balance accounts as we go on.

'The power is mine--I'll not be foil'd.'--
Went to the Mayor and swore the child.

Now all the racks poor Thomas feels
Of constables about his heels.
A dreadful prison's on his right;
A wife as dreadful comes in sight:
A halter he began to see
Ah! the most dreadful of the three!

An idle girl and child's thought quearish
Lumber upon a little parish--
'They'll give five pounds, which is enough,
If Thomas will but take her off.'
Then who will say, or even think,
That slav'ry is become extinct?
Woman, and babe not one day old,
Are brought to market to be sold.

Prosperity will make us naught,
But 'tis distress that brings on thought.
Thomas his life by far priz'd most;
'He could not yet become a ghost.
Nor in a gaol more pleasure have
Than he could find within a grave.
But if a wife he ventures on
She's not the first by many a one.
Her I can manage pretty well;
Besides, five pounds will sweetly tell.
This to a sore's a charming plaster;
'Twill heal up many a foul disaster,'

Now, at the church, in wedlock's bands,
The priest began to tie their hands.
Amidst a troop of Dragoon brothers,
St. Michael's overflow'd with others--
'Wilt have this woman?' Parson cries--
'By G-- I'm forc'd to't,' Tom replies.

The solemn Priest disdainful check'd
The groom, for want of due respect--
'Sir, 'tis a fact, 'twixt me and you;
And I'll be d--d if 'tis not true.'

The congregation, many a score,
Instantly burst into a roar.
Such mirth a church had never reach'd
Though Doctor, Dean, or Bishop, preach'd.
The Priest had half a mind to stand still.
He found his flock above his hand still.
But when he took a second view--
'He'd best make haste, and venture through.'
'Wilt comfort, keep her, love, and honour her?'
'By G--I shall away run from her, Sir.'
While humble I, a looker-on
Of that great laughing-stock made one.

'Jane Parker's married!' Miss Fame tells--
'Jane Parker's married!'--Michael's bells.
Now hats thrown up, and shouts rehearse
Just as the joyous crowd disperse.
Tom is attack'd on every side;
He'd turn'd a whore into a bride.
He join'd with laugh the general voice
Rapp'd on his breeches pocket thrice--
'Let the d--d b--h go to the devil;
Here lies a cure for every evil.'
While she stood silent in the church;
Nor even ventur'd to the porch;
And a more humble look she bore
Than she was known to look before.

His regiment coat he threw aside;
Put on a drab--ne'er saw his bride:
Thus he, his rising ills to smother,
Resum'd one drab, and left another:
Then off, to seek his fortune, went,
Belov'd; his officers consent.

Thus Tom the marriage sprig had planted;
From thence drew all the joys he wanted.
Quite full, you'd represent his store,
Who runs away for fear of more.

Old Time, to disappoint our spite,
Brings many a secret thing to light.
Jenny, like a foot-path appears,
When trodden much it never bears;
For though poor Thomas she beguil'd,
Yet she herself was not with child.
She false--he gone--nor will retain her;
The parish bit and Tom a gainer.