ELECTIONS' EVE!
A Song of the Future(?).
You must wake and call me early, call me early mother dear,
Though November is the dullest month of any in the year,
Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country—oh! how droll!
For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!
There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one won't be mine),
But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign,
Supported by my Coleridge—Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast soul,
Shall I be the Queen of the Poll, mother! I, be the Queen of the Poll!
The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my haunt,
That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er me daunt.
My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll,
And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll.
I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and gone,
The Valse is fled, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn;
Another Lawn, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye,
The Speaker's risen to orders, why the Dickens shouldn't I?
Pardon my slang, for auld slang syne, I'm still a woman true,
And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue;
But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot,
Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or——not?
Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow'll be the day
When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our say;
And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol,
For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!