Of Woman’s rights and Woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of late,
The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;
And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,
For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate
Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of Time!
The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,
That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;
But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find
If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,
In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.
If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,
You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face;
The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,
And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand,
Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
And her dress will be peculiar, both in fabric and in make,
An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake;
Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express
The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,
When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined
To join the progress movement for development of mind.
If you inquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best
Such matter should be understood, but never be expressed,
By a stern suggestive Bluestocking, in this mystic modern time.
She’ll converse upon æsthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from Angels bright and fair, to sympathise with Niggers,
Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs quite;
And, with Mrs. H—t B—r St—e, she’ll swear that black is white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little Blues, they’re black and blue with dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society, instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking, the plague of the modern time.
MORAL.
The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”
For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges;
Let woman’s proud and honoured place be still the fireside,
And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride,
In this our nineteenth century, the favoured child of Time.
Frank E. S.