On roofs and in cellars we've hidden, We've chained ourselves firmly to posts, Attended receptions, without being bidden, And heckled political hosts. With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle, Our cause we have sought to promote; By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling, We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote! [Illustration] What tales of our feats could be written! Of damage we love to inflict, Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten, Of Cabinet Ministers kicked! Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow Until it was forced down our throat, To prove to the nation by auto-starvation How worthy we were of the Vote! The gardens at Kew we've uprooted, We've ruined the 'greens' on the links, The letters of innocent strangers polluted With poisonous acids and inks! Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning, For others we care not a groat, But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily, To prove ourselves fit for the Vote! PLAGUES AT THE PLAY ['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'--The _Times_.] 'Well-dressed,' and well-fed, and well-meaning (God knows!), They arrive when the play is half ended; As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows, They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes, Quite unconscious of having offended! Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit, And uncloak in a leisurely fashion, While they act as a blind to the people behind Who grow perfectly purple with passion; Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled, Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled! A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy (This in audible accents they mention), And whenever some distant attendant they spy, They halloo or give vent to remarks such as 'Hi!' In attempts to attract her attention. After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse, And enjoy a good gossip together On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have caught, On the state of the crops and the weather, Till they leave, in the midst of some tense 'situation,' That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation. O managers, pray, am I asking too much If I beg that these 'persons of leisure' Be kept in a sound-proof and separate hutch, If their nightly theatrical manners are such As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure? For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied With a cage for such talkative parrots, Or a series of stalls (of the kind that have walls And some hay and a couple of carrots) Would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing And deal with an evil in need of redressing! A SUGGESTION