Gone With a Handsomer Man, by Will Carleton
I’ve worked in the field all day, a-plowin’ the ‘stony streak;’
I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak;
I’ve choked a dozen swears (so’s not to tell Jane fibs)
When the plow-p’int struck a stone and the handles punched my ribs.
I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I’ve fed ‘em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,
And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.
Well said! the door is locked! but here she’s left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell:
But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!
The letter it says, ’ Good-bye, for I’m a-going away;
I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;
But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.’
A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;
There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.
There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;
But a lovin’er man than I was I guess she’ll never find.
Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!
May the words of love I’ve spoke be changed to scorpion stings!
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!
Curse her! curse her! say I; she’ll some time rue this day;
She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;
And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born;
And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn!
As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;
And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,
She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;
And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;
And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!
I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.
And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;
But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ‘em in the past.
I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;
She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;
But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can—
That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;
It seems, when I look at that, as if ‘twas holdin’ her.
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder’s her weddin’ gown: I wonder she didn’t take that.
'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her 'dearest dear,'
And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;
O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,
Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!
Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.
You’ve lost a worshiper here—you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.
I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,
And kneel as you used to kneel before you run away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some little influence there,
I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so.
As happy and gay as I was a half an hour ago.
Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!
Come, what’s the matter now? and what ‘ve you lost or found?
And here’s my father here, a-waiting for supper, too;
I’ve been a-riding with him—he’s that ‘handsomer man than you.’
Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.
Why, John, you look so strange! Come, what has crossed your track?
I was only a-joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.
Well, now, if this ain’t a joke, with rather a bitter cream!
It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;
And I think she ‘smells a rat,’ for she smiles at me so queer;
I hope she don’t; good Lord! I hope that they didn’t hear!
'Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I'd understand!
But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,
'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.