Why Don’t the Men Propose

WHY don’t the men propose, mamma?

Why don’t the men propose?

Each seems just coming to the point,

And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,

That everybody knows;

You fête the finest men in town,

Yet, oh! they won’t propose!

I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma,

To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons

I’m ever on the watch;

I’ve hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he’ll dance, and smile, and flirt,

Alas! he won’t propose!

I’ve tried to win by languishing

And dressing like a blue;

I’ve bought big books, and talk’d of them

As if I’d read them through!

With hair cropped like a man, I’ve felt

The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,

And, oh! they won’t propose!

I threw aside the books, and thought

That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferr’d

A simple sort of Miss;

And so I lisped out naught beyond

Plain “Yeses” or plain “noes,”

And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;

Yet, oh! they won’t propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble’s rout,

I heard Sir Harry Gale

Exclaim, “Now I propose again!”

I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,

I blushed like any rose;

But, oh! I found ’t was only at

Ecarté he’d propose!

And what is to be done, mamma?

Oh! what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,

For I am thirty-one:

At balls I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why won’t the men propose, mamma?

Why won’t the men propose?

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