It’s so like a man: Let him find, if he can, Any children so good at their needles They come poking and prying, Set the teachers all crying, And bully the poor things like beadles. He’s worse than a Turk; Just look at our work: We have aprons and shirts, And bodies and skirts, And dusters for infants to hem; And sewing-on strings, And a whole heap of THINGS-- But of course we couldn’t show _them_. There were two dozen towels We made for the Powells, And ten pairs of stays To be sent to the Mays; We darn and we mend, And make things without end For the Johnsons that live at the Lodge: There’s fine work to be seen That would do for the Queen, And coarse things more suited for Hodge. One thing I must own, We can’t herringbone, But they say it’s no longer the mode; We’ve no flannel to show, And such garments, you know, As petticoats aren’t in his Code. But we can make chemises; We can knit muffeteeses, Or the _top_ of a stocking-- (_they weep_) Oh, it’s shocking, quite shocking: And he comes to our school, And looks perfectly cool, While we’re fretting and fussing, And secretly cussing, And he says, “Now, Miss T., I should just like to see WHERE’S YOUR SEWING?” There’s no knowing The spite of those terrible men: So like him to ask it: And Miss T. brings the basket, And takes off the cover, and then-- Much hurt, Shows one shirt. And he says, “Is that all? And no gusset at all? There should be one here:” (Oh, the CREATURE, my dear.) Then he takes it up shamefully, Handles it blamefully; Pulls it about, Outside in, inside out; Sticks his thumbs through the cracks, Puts Miss T. in a wax; Holds it up to the light (As if _he_ knew what’s right), And treats it so badly; Then shakes his head sadly-- (_they weep again_) And the _Things_, dear, you know, That we really _can’t_ show, He pretends not to see, And says, “Really, de-ah me!” And flops out of school in a huff. As if one shirt wasn’t enough! Oh, what will become of the Grant? He surely won’t _dare_--no, he can’t-- To fine us: it wouldn’t be fair: But if he should try, I declare, We have made up our minds, and we mean, To take all those THINGS to the QUEEN, And ask her opinion, And whether her MINION Is to trample on women like this: And if she’ll be pleased to dismiss Her bold-faced Inspector, Who bearded our Rector, And says we can’t _sew_, When we only can’t _shew_!