I’LL BE A BLOOMER.
Listen, females all,
No matter what your trade is,
Old Nick is in the girls,
The Devil’s in the ladies!
Married men may weep,
And tumble in the ditches,
Since women are resolved
To wear the shirt and breeches.
Ladies do declare
A change should have been sooner,
The women, one and all,
Are going to join the Bloomers.
Prince Albert and the Queen
Had such a jolly row, sirs;
She threw off stays and put
On waistcoat, coat, and trousers.
It will be fun to see
Ladies, possessed of riches,
Strutting up and down
In Wellingtons and breeches.
Bloomers are funny folks,
No ladies can be faster:
They say ‘tis almost time
That petticoats were master.
They will not governed be
By peelers, snobs, or proctors,
But take up their degree
As councillors and doctors.
No bustles will they wear,
Nor stocks, depend upon it;
But jerry hats and caps
Instead of dandy bonnet.
Trousers to their knees,
And whiskers round their faces;
A watch-chain in their fob,
And a pair of leather braces.
The tailors must be sharp
In making noble stitches,
And clap their burning goose
Upon the ladies‘ breeches.
Their pretty fingers will
Be just as sore as mutton
Till they have found the way
Their trousers to unbutton.
The Bloomers all declare
That men are sad deceivers;
They’ll take a turn, and be
Prigs, dustmen, and coalheavers—
Members of Parliament,
And make such jolly fusses;
Cobble up old ladies’ shoes;
Drive cabs and omnibuses.
Their husbands they will wop,
And squander all their riches;
Make them nurse the kids
And wash their shirts and breeches.
If men should say a word,
There’d be a jolly row, sirs!
Their wives would make them sweat
And beat them with their trousers.
The world’s turned upside down;
The ladies will be tailors,
And serve Old England’s Queen
As soldiers and as sailors.
Won’t they look funny when
The seas are getting lumpy,
Or when they ride astride
Upon an Irish donkey?
The ladies will be right;
Their husbands will be undone,
Since Bloomers have arrived
To teach the folks of London—
The females all I mean—
How to lay out their riches
In Yankee-Doodle-doos
And a stunning pair of breeches.
Female apparel now
Is gone to pot, I vow, sirs,
And ladies will be fined
Who don’t wear coats and trousers;
Blucher boots and hats,
And shirts with handsome stitches,—
Oh, dear! what shall we do
When women wear the breeches?
Now some will wear smock-frocks
And hobnail shoes, I vow, sirs;
Jenny, Bet, and Sal,
Cock’d hat and woollen trousers.
Yankee-Doodle-doo,
Rolling in the ditches;
Married men prepare
To buy the women breeches!
Punch had, among other Bloomer skits, the following rather good example:—