THE BACHELOR’S SONG
[In one of the States of the Argentine Republic bachelors have to pay a fine of £l a month up to the age of thirty, £2 a month from thirty to thirty-five, and £6 a month after they reach the age of fifty.]
Since my twentieth birthday I had tried
With no success to win a bride;
My heart had been returned with thanks
By cruel ladies in endless ranks.
But, instead of the balm that the jilted lacks,
The State came down on me with a tax,
And I saw my savings disappear
At the rate of twelve pounds every year.
It came a bit expensive, for
I wasn’t a wealthy bachelor.
Fearing my purse wouldn’t stand the drain,
At the age of thirty I tried again;
Bought new clothes of the latest style,
Practised a fascinating smile;
But—why, I cannot understand—
Nobody wanted my heart and hand
And the State, in its brutal, callous way,
Doubled the tax it made me pay.
Pounds to the number of twenty-four
I paid for being a bachelor.
My fiftieth birthday found me still
A single Jack in search of a Jill;
Hairless, hopeless, dull, and stout,
Troubled, too, with a twinge of gout;
And for all my exertions I could not
Find anyone willing to share my lot,
But did the State feed sorry for me?
No; it multiplied my fine by three.
Seventy pounds and a couple more
I paid for being a bachelor.
I write these lines with a borrowed quill
On the back of an unpaid tailor’s bill.
As clever readers will doubtless guess,
The local workhouse is my address.
It seems the only refuge for
A cruelly-harried bachelor.