V.

Our wives and children are at home, ’tis true; But we can do without them, I and you; All things have undergone a change back there; Our babes climb other knees; our shirts new husbands wear! They would not know us now, so dirty grown: So strong we smell they’d slam the angry door, Thinking our souls upon the wings of smoke had flown, Been puffed away upon this dingy shore, Leaving behind the wasted stumps alone, Fit on the ash-pile only to be thrown. Let what is, be as ’tis, of course; A wife is hard to reconcile; We might be driven out by force; ’Tis hard to fix things, when they’ve run awhile; ’Twould be at best our labor for our pains; He gains but little who a woman gains: Sad work, for hearts worn out with household noise, And arms grown lame long since with nursing baby-boys!