(A manuscript found in a bottle)
IT was the good ship Betsy Jane,
That sailed in a spanking breeze,
With a bunch of militant Suffs on board,
Condemned to an island unexplored
In far off southern seas.
The Suffs they went on a hunger strike,
And nothing eat would they,
So the skipper, a conscientious man,
Was forced to the forcible feeding plan,
In the genteel British way.
A squall came up and the ship went down,
And we of the Betsy Jane
Were left on a raft in a dreadful plight,
With never a friendly sail in sight,
On the well-known raging main.
Our skipper, a conscientious man,
Divided the grub with care.
Says he: "It's share and share alike,
You dames can eat or stay on strike,
But damme! there's your share."
The waves ran high, the grub ran low,
And never a sail we saw.
The Suffs they scorned the pork and bread,
And "Votes for wimmen!" was all they said,
And never a chaw they'd chaw.
The starving crew of the Betsy Jane
They watched their end draw near,
Till, "Blast my eyes!" said Bosun Bill,
"If they won't eat their chuck I will!"
And the rest of us give a cheer.
But the skipper, a conscientious man,
A pistol huge drew he.
"Who touches a hunk of yonder bread
Dies like a dog! Back up!" he said,
And-
. . . . . .
Right here the tale in the bottle stopped,
And left me on tiptoe;
For how they straightened the matter out,
Or whether their fate is still in doubt,
I'd jolly well like to know.
