(The favorite poem of Margaret Logan, which she often recited at parties and dances in the early days.)
The poor old batch, he has to scratch, to get his day's work done,
With getting meals and other jobs, of rest he can get none.
Of course he always keeps his shack so very, very neat,
And when one chances into it, it always smells so sweet.
You knock at the door, come in says he, you go in but can't stay,
You feel obliged to hold your breath, and long to get away.
He'll ask if you've had dinner yet, you'll tell him yes, though
starving, You'd rather go without for weeks than eat what he is carving.
Some burnt-up meat he tries to eat, his bread is more like dough,
And how on earth he drinks that tea, I really do not know.
His clothes have not seen water for more than a month you'd swear,
And his dirty little ill-kept shack doesn't boast a single chair.
From early morn 'til late at night, he works and slaves away,
And doesn't seem to be a bit ahead, at the closing of the day.
Sunday, when all his neighbors go to church, he washes all his
clothes, It's not the day it should be done, but they need it, goodness knows
His clothes are torn, his socks are worn, his shirts they all need
mending, And for the poor lone bachelor, there's trouble never ending.
How long a man can live like that is more than I can say,
But I suppose it will be so until the judgement day.
So girls make up your mind, and do the best you can,
And pack your shoes into the trunk of some nice bachelor man.
They're not all monsters. Oh, no, I know of more than one beauty,
And as I can safely say, as husbands they do their duty.