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Street Sweeper.

Bridget, sometimes, at the glass.

You think your style is just the thing

Oh! Gentle Lady, you know full well.

Oh! My Hoops.

The Conceited Woman.

A Mantilla from your shoulder falls

Waddling pyramid you go,

Aint you a pretty pair of bloods, as in the cars you ride

Pretty lady do not rage

Convenient Fashion.

Oh! My Hoops.

A Loud Working-Girl

Shop Girl's Sunday

 To be out of fashion

You Don't Look

The One That Wears the Breeches.

The ladies' hoops do dreadful slaughter.

"Pray, what's the matter," said a friend to me

Devoid of useless crinoline.

What more would you have, all plaided and stuffed

Behold her pompous, lofty stride.

Miss Brazenface.

Clear the track and let me pass.

Just A Little Flattered

Look Dandy, pray

Man with Elk Horns

Of Dandizetts You're Sure

Oh! Daughter of Fair

Oh, Dear Me

Oh, Dear Me

A Holy Show.

Hoop de Doo.

I as soon would wed

If My Passion

If My Passion

If My Passion

If My Passion

The Old Bachelor.

You’re a gentleman true

Who foolishly regards himself.

To be out of fashion

With a fine hat

Blundering little hussy

You queer looking

The Conceited Woman

All for Dress.

All for Dress.

Mussy on us! what a muss

An Amiable Young Lady.

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