THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.
(Hood's Own—for Somebody Else.)
IN the loudest things that are worn,
With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,—
This one idea in her head:
To be stitched, stitched, stitched,
Yet a little more tight in her skirt,
The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"
"Work, work, work.
In the broiling drive and row,
And work, work, work,
At the stifling crush and show.
And I'm so sick of it all,
That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk,
If he'd ask me—I would! For, after this,
Yes,—that would be Christian work!
"Work, work, work,
On the lawn in the lazy shade;
Work, work, work,
In the blaze of the baked parade.
Tea, and tennis, and band,—
Band, and tennis, and tea:—
If I can but ogle an eldest son,
They're all the same to me.
"You men, do you dare to sneer,
And point to your sisters and wives!—
Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'—
As if they had ne'er in their lives
Been stitched, stitched, stitched,
Each prude in her own tight skirt,
And wouldn't have been, without a blush,
Had she had the chance—a Flirt!
"And why do I talk of a blush?
Have I much of Modesty known?
Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek
Grows not unlike my own.
Yet strange that, not for my life,
Could I redden as she does, deep.
I wonder why colour called up's so dear,—
Laid on should come so cheap.
"But, work, work, work,
With powder, and puff, and pad:
And, work, work, work,
For every folly and fad!
With Imogen's artless gaze?
No?—Phryne's brazen stare!
With soul undone, but body made up,
I've all the fun of the fair.
"So I work, work, work!
My labour never fags.
And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom,
And a place on the roll of hags.
Still I ogle away by the wall,—
A playful kittenish thing;
Autumn well written all over my face,
Though my feet have lost their spring.
"So at times, when I'm out of breath,
And the men go off in a pack
To dangle about some chit just 'out,'—
Who smirks like a garrison hack,—
I try for a short half hour
To feel as I used to feel
When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed,
My hair, at least, was real.
"And at times, for a short half hour,
It seems a sort of relief
To think of Fred, and the few bright days
Before he came to grief.
My work? May be! Had I a heart,
My tears might flow apace;
But tears must stop—when every drop
Would carry away one's face!"
In the loudest things that are known,
With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,—
This one idea in her head:
To be stitched, stitched, stitched,
Yet a little more tight in her skirt;
The while with her voice disdainfully pitched
(Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched),
She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"
Punch, September 18, 1880.