He drops into my easy-chair, And asks about the news; He peers into my manuscript, And gives his candid views; MY FAMILIAR. He tells me where he likes the line, And where he's forced to grieve; He takes the strangest liberties, But never takes his leave! He reads my daily paper through He scans the lyric (that I wrote), He calmly smokes my last cigar, He talks about his fragile health, He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne'er complains ; MY FAMILIAR. And how he struggled once with Death To keep the fiend at bay; On themes like those away he goes But never goes away! He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote; He thinks the writer did me wrong; He'd like to run him through! He says a thousand pleasant things But never says "Adieu !" Whene'er he comes-that dreadful man Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an autumn rain, He'll last throughout the day. "DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?” In vain I speak of urgent tasks; In vain I scowl and pout; A frown is no extinguisher It does not put him out! I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes! "DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?" MADAM, you are very pressing, And I can't decline the task; With the slighest gift of guessing, You would scarcely need to ask! |