Vermont Watchman And State Journal

POETRY,

Bachelor's Hall.

Bachelor's Hall: what a queer looking place it is!
Keep me from such all the days of my life!
Sure but I think what a burning disgrace it is,
Never at all to be getting a wife.
See the old Bachelor, gloomy and sad enough
Placing his tea-kettle over the fire—
Soon it tips over—St. Patrick! he's mad enough,
(If he was present) to fight wid the Squire.
Now, like a hog in a mortar bed wallowing,
Awkward enough, see him kneading his dough:
'Troth! If the bread he could eat without swallowing
How it would savor his palate you know!
His dish-cloth is missing, the pigs are devouring it;
In the pursuit he has battered his shin;
A plate wanted washing—grimalkin was scouring it;
Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in.
Pots, dishes, pans and such greasy commodities;
Ashes and potato skins cover the floor ;
His cupboard's a store-house of comical oddities,
Things that had never been neighbors before.
His meal being over the table's left standing so,
Dishes take care of yourselves if you can!
But hunger returns, then he fuming and fretting so;
Och! Let him alone for a baste of a man
Late in the night then he goes to bed shivering;
Never a bit is the bed made at all
He creeps like a terrapin under the covering—
Bad luck to the picture of Bachelor's Hall.