Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is sorely sick Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle, the spade, the pick, Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the well-to-do, And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me and you.
Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and stir their bile? Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious guile. But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts, And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.
Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer pay; Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not have our say In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL the "Whip"? The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance--which they mustn't let slip:
An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame the quiz. We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as now it is." _We_ know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the aching back, The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the hurried snack.
There may--who knows?--be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just think o' that! Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and appeal falls flat On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go; But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;--so we'll let them _know_!
Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my village home! The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that to this I'd come Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white, and the presses fair; Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with a noisome air.
Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a spectral thing, A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst we rinse and wring. Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back. You have finished your grub, So to work once more; if our champions score, we _may_ find a new end to this Tale of a Tub!