THE SONG OF THE BAR.
Work, work, work!
Sang HOOD, in the "Song of the Shirt,"
Of the seamstress slave who worked to her grave
In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
Work, work, work!
The Bar-maid, too, can say,
Work for ten hours, or more;
Oh, for "eight hours" a day!
Is she a happier slave
Where gilding and mirrors abound?
Of what can she think when eternal drink
Is the cry of all around?
Stand, stand, stand!
Serving sots from far and near;
Stand, stand, stand!
More whiskey! More brandy! More beer!
Possibly some one may say,
"What can that matter to us?
She is frail, frivolous, gay;
She is not worth a fuss."
Prig, all her life is a snare,
You, so excessively good,
Would pity her rather if there
Once for ten hours you stood.
How would you feel at the end?
You may not think she is fit,
Quite, for your sister's friend—
Is she too wicked to sit?
Stand stand, stand!
In the smoke of pipe and cigar,
Always to think of eternal drink;
Oh, pity the Slave of the Bar!
BY A RIBBON GIRL WHO HAS BEEN TO FRANCE.—"Sure the town itself must be full of go-a-head young women that a decent female wouldn't be seen spaking to—else why is it called Belle-Fast?"