In a year long gone by, with its blessing and ban,
There lived in a city a model young man,
Who tenderly wooed and bewitchingly smiled,
Till he won the warm heart of an only child;
And a well-to-do widow, named Mrs. Kershaw,
Was cast for the role of his mother-in-law.

She willingly gave him her daughter's fair hand,
And with it a deed to her home, house and land,
For, “Mother,” he said, in the tenderest tone,
“You never could live in that great house alone.”
The lady assented, and little foresaw
The risk of becoming a mother-in-law.

So he sent down his parcels and property traps—
A trunk and a hat-box, a boot-jack and wraps,
Shirt fronts without buttons, socks out at the toes,
Some eau de Cologne and pomatum de rose,
To the cosy old homestead where Mrs. Kershaw
Was to figure thereafter as mother-in-law.

That lady soon found that she nothing had won,
Save the onerous task of supporting a son,
Who feasted and fared like a king in his hall,
And never made mention of money at all,
But welcomed with gusto and ready guffaw,
Sarcastical flings at his mother-in-law.

She paid for the fuel, and settled the bills
For meat, bread and butter, for powders and pills.
She made and she mended from morning till night,
And was up and at work with the earliest light,
While he lay a-dreaming of failure or flaw
In the breakfast prepared by his mother-in-law.

If anything vexed him at home or away—
The tone of a dun, or a letter's delay:
If the cakes were too heavy, the coffee too cold,
The steak over done, or the eggs over old,
This lord of the manor would jabber and jaw,
And blow off his wrath on his mother-in-law.

If babe took the measles, or cook took a huff;
If clouds threatened rain, or the east winds were rough;
If tuneful mosquitos annoyed him at night;
If his hair were too long, his trowsers too tight,
Or his collar too broad by the width of a straw,
He snapped like a shark at his mother-in-law.

Whenever he happened to stay at the club
Till long after midnight swung over its hub,
And only got home when the stars, pale and wan,
Were fainting away in the light of the dawn—
If his wife said a word, he declared he foresaw
A Caudle prepared by his mother-in-law.

If wife chanced to find, as she mended his coat,
In a scented envelope a rose-colored note,
Beginning, “My Darling,” and ending, “My Sweet,”
That he chanced to pick up (O, of course) in the street,
To her tremulous questions he answered “O pshaw!”
But looked daggers and guns at his mother-in-law.

When some one declared Mr. Lo an old shirk
For making his women do all the hard work,
He thought to himself he would willingly wear
A scalp at his waist and a plume in his hair,
Would sleep on a bearskin, eat buffalo raw,
To be lord for awhile of his mother-in-law.

He wished in his heart—and believed it no crime—
We had kept to the rule of the Puritan time,
When every old woman, grown wrinkled and gray,
Was considered a witch and put out of the way;
For by a conclusion so easy to draw,
He could quickly get rid of his mother-in-law.

The lady lived on, but whenever he read
A notice that some ancient woman was dead,
He envied the mourners her exit made free,
And waited and wondered how long it would be
Till Death, in compassion, would put out his paw,
And finish the course of his mother-in-law.