yes, i love you, dear matilda,

but you may not be my bride,

and the obstacles are many

which have caused me to decide.

firstly, what is most annoying,

and i'm not above confessing,

is, that i think you indolent,

and over-fond of dressing.

i've known you spend an hour or two

in a-sitting on a chair,

and a-fussing and attending

to your toilet or your hair.

there's another little matter—

you may say a simple thing—

yet, matilda, i must own it,

i object to hear you sing.

for the sounds you make in singing

are so very much like squalling,

that the only term appropriate

to them is caterwauling.

indeed, i've never heard such horrid

noises in my life,

and i'd certainly not tolerate

such singing in a wife.

and, matilda dear, your language!

it is really very bad;

the expressions which you use at times,

they make me feel quite sad.

it is very, very shocking,

but i do not mind declaring

that i've heard some sounds proceeding

from your lips so much like swearing,

that i've had to raise a finger,

and to close at least one ear,

for i couldn't feel quite certain

what bad words i mightn't hear.

but worse than this, matilda:

i hear, with pious grief,

many rumours that matilda

is no better than a thief

and i'm shocked to find my darling

so entirely lost to feeling,

as to go and give her mind up

unto picking and a-stealing.

oh, matilda! pray take warning,

for a prison cell doth yearn

for a person that appropriates

and takes what isn't her'n.

and the culminating blow is this:

you stay out late at night.

now, matilda dear, you must confess

to do this is not right.

where you go to, dear, or what you do,

there really is no telling,

and with rage and indignation

my fond foolish heart is swelling.

yet the faults which i've enumera-

ted can't be wondered at,

when one realises clearly

that "matilda"—is a cat.