Convent Life

March 20, 1869, p. 183, c. 3


"Wilt thou be a nun, Sophie?

Nothing but a nun?

Is it not a better thing

With thy friends to laugh and sing?

To be loved and sought, Sophie,

To be wooed and won?

Dost thou love the shadow, Sophie,

Better than the sun?"


'Tis an ancient song, ladies:

Do you like it well?

Tired of balls that last till day,

Tired of throwing time away,

Far from fools and flirts, ladies,

You are fain to dwell.

May you not discover, ladies,

That the cell's a sell?


You would think of heaven, ladies.

'Neath a crucifix --

Linger in delusive dream

Till the brides of Christ you seem --

Call wild visions down, ladies,

With your life to mix --

Play with feeble brains, ladies,

Foolish Papist tricks.


Ball-room and boudoir, ladies,

Leave, amid your bloom --

Shrink from the Superior's whip,

Kneel, and kiss the floor, and strip --

With those dainty hands, ladies,

Wield the house-maid's broom:

That's the sort of life, ladies,

'Mid the Convent's gloom.


Dreariness and dirt, ladies,

Sullenness and strife,

Better far in youth to die,

Than for long dull years to try

This sad, sordid prison, ladies,

This mere death in life.

Who would be a nun, ladies,

That could be a wife?


Must you be a nun, Sophie,

'Neath a luckless star?

Have you made your little mind

Up to be for life confined --

Bullied by a mistress, Sophie,

Foolish as you are?

Better take a master, Sophie,

He'd be kinder far.