'ARRIET ON LABOUR.
Dear Polly,—These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror.
They gives me twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court Road Terror,
Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher;
But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher.
"Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez Sam Jones, our neighbour.
"I'm glad to 'ear it, Sam," sez I. "But, Sammy, wot is Labour?"
Sam gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday.
Bit bosky, Sam, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday.
"Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, Sam! You 'orny-'anded codgers—
Your palm's as soft as putty, Sam—are reglar Artful Dodgers.
Yer Labour, with a capital L, looks mighty fine in print, Sam,
But work with a small w—ah! I see yer takes the 'int, Sam."
That shut him up, the lolloper! He know'd I'd took his measure,
And squelching 'umbugs always do give me pertikler pleasure.
Jones sorter set 'is cap at me; I earn good money I do;
But love as follows L.S.D. 's all fol-der-riddle-dido!
"Bashing a knobstick's ripping fun, no doubt—for them as bashes;
But this here new petroleum game won't work." Here Jones's lashes—
They're stubby, ginger, sly-fox ones—got kinder tangle-twinkle.
I 'ad my eye on 'im, the worm, while working out my winkle.
(I'd got a pennorth in a bag; they're things to which I'm partial.)
"We must bust up Mernopoly," sez Sam, a-looking martial.
"The 'Oly Cause o' Labour carn't be stayed by trifles, 'Arriet!
Judas must 'ang, 'twere weakness to show mercy to Iscariot!"
"Bit o' yer platform gag," sez I. "You keep it for the club, Sam.
'Twon't comfort me, nor your old mother toiling at the tub, Sam.
The 'Oly Cause o' Labour, Sam 's, a splendid thing to spout about,
But it's a thing as skulkers makes the most tremenjus rout about."
I'm only just a work-girl, Poll, one of the larky drudges
As swarm acrost the bridge at night and 'omeward gaily trudges,
A tootling "Ta-ra-boom-de-ay," a chaffing of the fellers,
And flourishing their feathered 'ats bright reds, and blues and yellers.
As vulgar as they make 'em, Poll. Leastways the chaps whose trade is
To write and dror in Comics, call hus "anythink but ladies."
Ladies? O lor! On thirteen bob a week, less sundry tanners
For fines, it's none so easy, Poll, to keep up style and manners.
But work-girls work, and that is more than Sam and 'is sort—drat 'em!
When I see shirks platforming, Poll, I'm longing to get at 'em.
When Women's Rights include the charnce of gettin' a fair 'earing
For Women's Wrongs—wy then there'll be less bashing and less beering.
As for the Vote—well, I dunno. It seems pertikler curious
That politics makes a man a hass, they drives the fellers furious.
If Votes sets women by the ears, as they does men, my winky!
I guess 'twill make domestic life even more crabbed and kinky.
Wy my young man—you know 'im, Poll—whose temper's real milky,
Whose 'art is soft as 'is merstarche—and that is simply silky—
Got that rouged up on polling day, along of a young Tory
As called him names. I 'ad to 'ug 'im off to stop the gory.
The chap was in the 'atting line, and thought Balfour a 'ero;
Whereas my Mick 'as Hirish blood, and calls 'im "Niminy Nero."
I don't a bit know what they meant, but if them votes should send hus
As fairly off our chumps as men, the shine will be tremendous!
We shall 'ave a fair beano then! Well, I'm not nuts on voting.
Your 'Arriet's lay is—better pay! That's not wot they're promoting,
Them spouting Labour Candidates. Of women's work they're jealous;
They light the fire to warm hus? Bah! they're only good at bellows!
Their Eight 'Ours Day, and such-like rot, gives me the 'ump, dear Polly—
Wouldn't some women like it, though? Well, 'oping for it's folly,
Like longing for a seal-skin sweet, or a Marquige for a lover.
Man's work may be too long sometimes, a woman's never over.
Leastways, a married woman's, Poll. Mick's 'ot on me to "settle,"
But eighteen bob a week—his screw—ain't much to bile the kettle;
And I ain't 'ad my fling, not yet. Mick's reglar smart and sparky,
But—when a woman's fairly spliced, it's U. P. with the larky.
And oh my, Poll, I do love larks! Theayters, 'ops, and houtings
Warm a girl's 'art a rare sight more than politics and spoutings.
Mick says he 'as his eye upon a "flat," neat and commojus.
Mick's a good sort, but tied for life to toil—at eighteen? Ojus!
'Ard Labour, and for life, without the hoption! That's a sentence
As 'ot as 'Arry 'Orkins's, and no place for repentance.
Ah, Poll, my girl, a woman's work is Labour, and no skulking.
It must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking.
Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations.
The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations,
Like you and me, Poll, 'as a chance of larky nights and jolly days,
Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays.
But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle,
A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, Mick may spoon and wheedle,
But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin,
Then marriage is a failure, Poll, I give yer the straight griffin.
The goodies slate us shop-girls sharp, say married life or sarvice
Are more respectabler. Oh lor! Just look at poor Jane Jarvis!
She were a dasher, Jenny were, 'er fringe and feathers took it,
And now—'er only 'ope's that Bill may tire of 'er and 'ook it.
You know that purple hostrich plume she were so proud of, Polly!
I bought it on 'er for five bob larst week, and it looks jolly
In my new 'at. But as she sat a snivellin' o'er that dollar,
Thinks I if this is married life 'Arriet's not game for collar.
She looked so suety and sad, and all them golden tresses
She was so proud of when it ran to smart new 'ats and dresses,
Was all tight knotted round 'er knob like oakum on a mop, Poll.
Her bright blue eyes in mourning, and—well, there, I couldn't stop, Poll.
Labour? Well yus, the best of hus must work; yer carn't git quit of it;
And you and me, Poll, like the rest, must do our little bit of it.
But oh, I loves my freedom, Poll, my hevenings hoff is 'eaven;
But wives and slavies ain't allowed even one day in seven.
Jigger the men! Sam spouts and shouts about the 'Onest Worker.
That always means a Man, of course—he's a smart Man, the shirker!
But when a Man lives upon his wife, and skulks around his diggings,
Who is the "'Onest Worker" then?—Yours truly,
'Arriet 'Iggings.