Anna Laetitia Barbauld - Washing-Day lyrics

--- and their voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in its sound. --- The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse, In slipshod measure loosely prattling on Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire By little whimpering boy, with rueful face; Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day. Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on Too soon;—for to that day nor peace belongs Nor comfort;—ere the first gray streak of dawn, The red-armed washers come and chase repose. Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, E'er visited that day: the very cat, From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth, Visits the parlour,—an unwonted guest. The silent breakfast-meal is soon dispatched; Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. From that last evil, O preserve us, heavens! For should the skies pour down, adieu to all Remains of quiet: then expect to hear Of sad disasters,—dirt and gravel stains Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once Snapped short,—and linen-horse by dog thrown down, And all the petty miseries of life. Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. —But grant the welkin fair, require not thou Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, Or usual 'tendance;—ask not, indiscreet, Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find Some snug recess impervious: shouldst thou try The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight Of coarse checked apron,—with impatient hand Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim On such a day the hospitable rites! Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie, Or tart or pudding:—pudding he nor tart That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try, Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow Clear up propitious:—the unlucky guest In silence dines, and early slinks away. I well remember, when a child, the awe This day struck into me; for then the maids, I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them: Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams, Relic of costly suppers, and set by For me their petted one; or bu*tered toast, When bu*ter was forbid; or thrilling tale Of ghost or witch, or murder—so I went And sheltered me beside the parlour fire: There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, Tended the little ones, and watched from harm, Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured One less indulgent.— At intervals my mother's voice was heard, Urging dispatch: briskly the work went on, All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. Then would I sit me down, and ponder much Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft The floating bubbles; little dreaming then To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball Ride buoyant through the clouds—so near approach The sports of children and the toils of men. Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles, And verse is one of them—this most of all.