She’ll converse upon æsthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from Angels bright and fair, to sympathise with Niggers,
Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs quite;
And, with Mrs. H—t B—r St—e, she’ll swear that black is white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little Blues, they’re black and blue with dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society, instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking, the plague of the modern time.