A New Song on the Bloomer Costume
Oh, did you hear the news of late,
According to the rumours,
The pretty ladies one and all,
Are going to join the bloomers.
Since Mrs Dexter’s come to town,
She says, oh, what a row, sir,
The men shall wear the petticoats
And ladies wear the trousers.
Oh, did you hear, &c.
Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,
She says, she’ll not be lazy,
But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,
And set the men all crazy.
Old maids and lasses fine and gay,
Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,
Long petticoats now throw away,
And beat the yanky dandy.
Prince Albert and the Queen one day,
Had such a jolly row, sirs,
She threw off her petticoats
And put on boots and trousers;
Won’t it be funny for to see
Ladies possessed of riches,
Riding up and down the town
In Wellingtons and breeches.
Now you with ancles short and thick,
Of every rank and station,
Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,
By this new alteration.
And landladies that creep about,
Well known as twenty stoners,
Come shove your bustles up the spout,
And join the dashing bloomers.
The bloomers dress, the people say,
Is getting all the go now,
The pretty factory lasses they,
Will cut a gallant show now,
In petticoats above their knes,
And breeches too you’ll fit them.
Nice jackets made of velveteen,
All button’d up behind them.
Now married men take my advice,
Step out and spend your riches,
And buy your wife all in a trice,
Short petticoats and breeches,
For in the fashion she will hop,
Whene’er she’s out of humour,
I wonder if her tongue will stop,
When she becomes a bloomer.
Last night my wife she said to me,
Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,
I’ll have a pair of gaiters, and
Breeches made of goat’s skin.
A pair of boots and silver spurs,
For I have got such bad legs,
I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,
The donkey now a strad-legs.
The men must go out selling fish,
And deal in shrimps and mussels,
Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,
Fine flounces and big bustles,
You’ll have no call to work at all,
But walk out in your broaches,
The ladies are determined, for,
To drive the cabs and coaches.
The tailors now must all be sharp
In making noble stitches,
And be sure and clap their burning goose
Upon the ladies’ breeches;
Their pretty little fingers will
Be just as sore as mutton,
Until that they have found the way
Their trousers to unbutton.
You factory lasses, one and all,
Your dresses all reform now,
Buy a jacket and a trousers for
To keep you snug and warm now;
Short petticoats and garters too,
No matter how the time goes,
A billycock and feather for
To see which way the wind blows.
M. O’LOUGHNAN.