Don't Get Married Girls - Seán Cannon, The Dubliners

Don’t get married girls, you’ll sign away your life

You may start off as a woman but you’ll end up as the wife

You could be a vestal virgin, take the veil and be a nun

But don’t get married girls for marriage isn’t fun

Oh, it’s fine when you’re romancing and he plays the lover’s part

You’re the roses in his garden, you’re the flame that warms his heart

And his love will last forever and he’ll promise you the moon

But just wait until you’re wedded, then he’ll sing a different tune

You’re his tapioca pudding, you’re the dumplings in his stew

But he’ll soon begin to wonder what he ever saw in you

Still he takes without complaining all the dishes you provide

For you see he’s got to have his bit of jam tart on the side

So don’t get married girls, it’s very badly paid

You may start off as the mistress but you’ll end up as the maid

Be a daring deep sea diver, be a polished polyglot

But don’t get married girls, for marriage is a plot

Have you seen him in the morning with a face that looks like death?

With dandruff on his pillow and tobacco on his breath

And he needs some reassurance with his cup of tea in bed

For he’s worried by the mortgage and the bald patch on his head

And he’s sure that your his mother, lays his head upon your breast

So you try to boost his ego, iron his shirt and warm his vest

Then you get him off to work, the mighty hunter is restored

And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can’t afford

So don’t get married girls, men they’re all the same

They just use you when they need you, you’d do better on the game

Be a call girl, be a stripper, be a hostess, be a whore

But don’t get married girls, for marriage is a bore

When he comes home in the evening he can hardly spare a look

All he says is «What's for dinner?»

After all you’re just the cook

But when he takes you to a party, well, he eyes you with a frown

For you know you’ve got to look your best, you mustn’t let him down

And he’ll clutch you with that «Look-what-I've-got» twinkle in his eyes

Like he’s entered for a raffle and he’s won you for the prize

Ah, but when the party’s over you’ll be slogging through the sludge

Half the time a decoration and the other half a drudge

So don’t get married, it’ll drive you round the bend

It’s the lane without a turning, it’s the end without an end

Take a lover every Friday, take up tennis, be a nurse

But don’t get married girls, for marriage is a curse

Then you get him off to work, the mighty hunter is restored

And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can’t afford