The Valse is fled, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn;
Another Lawn, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye,
The Speaker's risen to orders, why the Dickens shouldn't I?
Pardon my slang, for auld slang syne, I'm still a woman true,
And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue;
But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot,
Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or——not?
Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow'll be the day
When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our say;
And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol,