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Home > Authors Index > Browse all available works of Joseph Crosby Lincoln > Text of Matildy's Beau

A poem by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

Matildy's Beau

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Title:     Matildy's Beau
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [More Titles by Lincoln]

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind
That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind;
But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hain't shut so tight
But I can add up two and two and get the answer right;
So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin' awful late,
And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate--
And when that gate got saggin' down 'bout ha'f a foot er so--
I says ter mother: "Ma," says I, "Matildy's got a beau."

We ought ter have expected it--she's 'most eighteen, yer see;
But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me;
And so, a feller after _her_! why, that jest did beat all!
But, t' other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call;
And when I see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please,
But sort er lookin' 's if he had the shivers in his knees,
I kind er realized it then, yer might say, like a blow--
Thinks I, "No use! I'm gittin' old; Matildy's got a beau."

Just twenty-four short years gone by--it do'n't seem five, I vow!--
I fust called on Matildy--that's Matildy's mother now;
I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat,
And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up shiny hat.
And, my! oh, my! them new plaid pants; well, wa'n't I something grand
When I come up the walk with some fresh posies in my hand?
And didn't I feel like a fool when her young brother, Joe,
Sang out: "Gee crickets! Looky here! Here comes Matildy's beau!"

And now another feller comes up _my_ walk, jest as gay,
And here's Matildy blushin' red in jest her mother's way;
And when she says she's got ter go an errand to the store,
We know _he_ 's waitin' 'round the bend, jest as I've done afore;
Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bless yer heart!
I have ter smile ter hear how quick their chairs are shoved apart.
They think us old folks don't "catch on" a single mite; but, sho!
I reckon they fergit I was Matildy's mother's beau.


[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: Matildy's Beau

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