POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2044, 11 September 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

A SONG OF THE FOLLIES OF FASHION. [From “Truth.”] With eye-lids pencilled with black. With lips well bedaubed with paste, A lady sat in her dressing-room, Having her corset laced ; Till, moved by an extra tug, She dismissed her maid in a passion, And, sinking back in her chair, she sang Of the follies of modern fashion 1 “ Oh, why !”—it was sung — “ Are we doom’d to such painful rites ? Oh, why must we spend so many hours In making ourselves such sights ? It can’t be to please ourselves. That we drain this bitter cun ; Or at least I know lam heartily sick Of this endless ‘making-up.’” “They tell me my face is fair. That my form is full-of grace. And yet J am doing my best—or worst— To sp"il this form and face. Ah, well do our censors say That woman is woefully weak, For we hug the chains that gallons so, And refuse our escape to seek. “ I could scream with the pain, and I do. When Parker my waist so pinches, But Fashion decrees that it must be At the most but sixteen inches. And its lace ! lace ! lace I

Till I gasp for each breath I take. And often long in the torture keen That the stay-lace would but break, “ Tis the same from top to toe— My boots my feet pinch in ; My jersey, fashion’s latest fad. Clings close to me like a skin. And its tug ! tug ! tug ! When that garment they try to doff ; Why, the caricature can’t be too strong, That tries to * tahe it off.' “ My hands are forced Into gloves A size, at the least, too small ; My dress so clutches me round the knees, That I fear every step to fall, I am nowhere free ; my arms By tight-cut sleeves are clipp’d, My neck is spann’d by a golden band, And by stiff, starch’d linen nipp’d. “But why do I dwell on this ? Worse secrets I have to tell, If secrets you can esteem the tricks Which the w-rrld knows all to well. The rouge, the chalk, and the paste The hare’s-foot and the dye 1 The washes, the pencils, the cosmetiques 1 Which fashion’s votaries try.

“False! false! false! And the list is cne to shame ! But it’s not the fashion now to blush When these toilet aids we name. There’s our hair ; well, that is false, To a greater extent or less; And the lover who steals a lock ne’er knows Whose hair he may chance to possess. “And our faces ! oh, who shall tell The labor which they involve ? The washes we boil, the pastes we mix, The ungents that we dissolve I Paint, and powder, and patch, Patch, and powder, and paint, Till the heart is sick and the fingers tired. And one’s very spirits faint. “ Paint 1 paint! paint ! Till the ‘ roses ’ will stand the light, And paint, paint, paint In a style that is fit for night: Whilst the eyes are deftly lined, And the lips with colour traced. And one’s alabaster brow and bust In enamel are duly cased ? " And its psd, pad, pad! Till our shapes are altered quite ; As though the lines by Nature drawn, Could never by chance be right. And we women, like bolsters stuffed, Walk gingerly about, Assured that where there is so much false, The truth must needs come out.”

“ Oh, what would I give to be The free, fresh girl of yore, To cut my corset airings. And to powder and paint no more ! Oh, but for one short day,

To feel as I used to feel, Ere cruel fashion hound me tight, In her bands of bone and steel 1

“ Oh, men with sisters dear! Oh, men with sweethearts and wives I ’Tis to gain your smiles, remember this, We are wearing out our lives. Remember, and interfere, Have pity, and come to our aid. And ’gainst our tyrant merciless Lead ns on in a new crusade. ” ##*#*■ With eyelids pencilled with black. With lips well bedaubed with paste, A lady sat in her dressing-room chair, With her corset half up laced. ** False! false ! false!” In tones of varying passion, She cried, as in stern, now in dolorous pitch— Oh, that her words may reach the rich— She sang of the Follies of Fashion !