MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
No! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget,
Like you, in disputin' with men—
Would I fly in the face of the blissed
Apostles, an' Father Maginn?
It isn't the talent I'm wantin'—
Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,
Made a beautiful last spache and confession
When they hanged him in ould Tipperary.
So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'
About Womins' Rights, and all that!
Sure all the rights I want is the one right,
To be a good helpmate to Pat;
For he's a good husband—and niver
Lays on me the weight of his hand
Except when he's far gone in liquor,
And I nag him, you'll plase understand.
Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin',
That's becaze I disputed his right,
To tak' and spind all my week's earnin's
At Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.
But it's sildom when I've done a washin',
He'll ask for more'n half of the pay;
An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,
That's like a swate mornin' in May!
Now where, if I rin to convintions,
Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?
Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday,
Or patch up his ould corduroys.