When they fair become the fashion. Yus, for all their bubbaroo.
The seving thousand Leaguers, and their Leader will cave in,
And wear wot now they swear is jest a shame, dear, and a sin.
I do not care a snap wot the opinion of the men is,
Nor yet for the hesthetecks, nor the toffs as play at Tennis;
I sez 'Ooped Skirts for hever! This Strange Winter's out o' tune,
I prefers the Summer, Polly, wich I mean dear Lady June.
Anti-Crinerline be jiggered! I've got one dear mother wore,
Though the steels is a bit twisted, and the stuff a trifle tore,
I can fake it up, when Fashion gives the watch-word, I've no doubt,