And so Bloomerism languished awhile and presently died out, but not before a vast amount had been written and printed in its praise or abuse. The satirical effusions which owe their origin to this mania are none of them remarkable for reticence or delicacy. Indeed, the subject did not allow of this last quality, and the broad-sheet verses issued from the purlieus of Drury Lane by the successors of Catnach are, some of them, very frank. Perhaps the best and most quotable is the broad-sheet, _I’ll be a Bloomer_. The writer, not a literary man by any means, starts off at score, and his first verses, if models neither of taste, rhyme, nor rhythm, are vigorous. It is when the inspiration runs dry, and he relies upon a slogging industry with which to eke out his broad-sheet, that exhaustion becomes evident. I’LL BE A BLOOMER. [Illustration: THE BLOOMER COSTUME, 1851. ] Listen, females all, No matter what your trade is, Old Nick is in the girls, The Devil’s in the ladies! Married men may weep, And tumble in the ditches, Since women are resolved To wear the shirt and breeches. Ladies do declare A change should have been sooner, The women, one and all, Are going to join the Bloomers. Prince Albert and the Queen Had such a jolly row, sirs; She threw off stays and put On waistcoat, coat, and trousers. It will be fun to see Ladies, possessed of riches, Strutting up and down In Wellingtons and breeches. Bloomers are funny folks, No ladies can be faster: They say ‘tis almost time That petticoats were master. They will not governed be By peelers, snobs, or proctors, But take up their degree As councillors and doctors. No bustles will they wear, Nor stocks, depend upon it; But jerry hats and caps Instead of dandy bonnet. Trousers to their knees, And whiskers round their faces; A watch-chain in their fob, And a pair of leather braces. The tailors must be sharp In making noble stitches, And clap their burning goose Upon the ladies‘ breeches. Their pretty fingers will Be just as sore as mutton Till they have found the way Their trousers to unbutton. The Bloomers all declare That men are sad deceivers; They’ll take a turn, and be Prigs, dustmen, and coalheavers-- Members of Parliament, And make such jolly fusses; Cobble up old ladies’ shoes; Drive cabs and omnibuses. Their husbands they will wop, And squander all their riches; Make them nurse the kids And wash their shirts and breeches. If men should say a word, There’d be a jolly row, sirs! Their wives would make them sweat And beat them with their trousers.