We poor Hairdressers may get just a chance
Of an hour or two's pleasure or rest on the latter day;
Prospect to make many dreary eyes dance!

And yet some object to this small "Early Closing,"
I wish they could know what it is to chop, chop,
When your feet are one ache and your eyes drawn to dozing
And you're sick of the sight and the smell of the shop!
When a whiff from the meadows appears to come stealing
Above all our washes, and powders, and soaps;
And the whirr of the brush which revolves near the ceiling
Seems pain to our ears and seems death to our hopes!

True, most of the Masters will yield to our yearnings,
A lesson I think to the few who stand out!
I wager the change won't diminish their earnings,
W. REED and A. SUTTON know what they're about,--
Our President, BOB, and our Hon. Sec. Address 'em
At "fair Piccadilly," 6, Swallow Street, W.
Hairdressers' Assistants unitedly bless 'em,
If you, BOB, or others _can_ help us, I'll trouble you!

'Tis long, my dear BOB, since I sent you a letter,
And this you'll admit is a practical one.
We Hairdressers wish our condition to better,
And get our fair share of rest, leisure, and fun.
One Five o' Clock Close every week is our plea, BOB,
Not much for the slaves of scrape-scrape and snip-snip!
The fairness of it I'm convinced you will see, BOB,
And so should the world, says