We _shall_ 'ave a fair beano then! Well, I'm not nuts on voting. Your 'ARRIET'S lay is--better pay! _That's_ not wot they're promoting, Them spouting Labour Candidates. Of women's work they're jealous; _They_ light the fire to warm _hus_? Bah! they're only good at bellows! Their Eight 'Ours Day, and such-like rot, gives me the 'ump, dear POLLY-- Wouldn't some women like it, though? Well, 'oping for it's folly, Like longing for a seal-skin _sweet_, or a Marquige for a lover. Man's work may be too long sometimes, a woman's _never_ over. Leastways, a _married_ woman's, POLL. MICK'S 'ot on me to "settle," But eighteen bob a week--his screw--ain't much to bile the kettle; And I ain't 'ad my fling, not yet. MICK'S reglar smart and sparky, But--when a woman's fairly spliced, it's U. P. with the larky. And oh my, POLL, I _do_ love larks! Theayters, 'ops, and houtings Warm a girl's 'art a rare sight more than politics and spoutings. MICK says he 'as his eye upon a "flat," neat and commojus. MICK'S a good sort, but tied for life to toil--at eighteen? Ojus! 'Ard Labour, and for life, without the hoption! That's a sentence As 'ot as 'ARRY 'ORKINS'S, and no place for repentance. Ah, POLL, my girl, a woman's work _is_ Labour, and no skulking. _It_ must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking. Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations. The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations, Like you and me, POLL, _'as_ a chance of larky nights and jolly days, Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays. But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle, A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, MICK may spoon and wheedle, But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin, Then marriage _is_ a failure, POLL, I give yer the straight griffin. The goodies slate us shop-girls sharp, say married life or sarvice Are more _respectabler_. Oh lor! Just look at poor JANE JARVIS! She were a dasher, JENNY were, 'er fringe and feathers took it, And now--'er only 'ope's that BILL may tire of 'er and 'ook it. You know that purple hostrich plume she were so proud of, POLLY! I bought it on 'er for five bob larst week, and it looks jolly In my new 'at. But as she sat a snivellin' o'er that dollar, Thinks I if this is married life 'ARRIET'S not game for collar. She looked so suety and sad, and all them golden tresses She was so proud of when it ran to smart new 'ats and dresses, Was all tight knotted round 'er knob like oakum on a mop, POLL. Her bright blue eyes in mourning, and--well, there, I couldn't stop, POLL.