They left these fashions to us.
But, ah, she was sweet and pleasant, though possibly not well-read,
The excellent wife who cheered your life,
And vanished at ten to bed.
And it's oh the pity, the pity that time should ever annul
The wearers of skirts who mended shirts,
And never thought nurseries dull.
For everything's topsy-turvy now, the men are bedded at ten,
While the women sit up, and smoke and sup
In the Club of the Chickless Hen.