Poems (Schiller)/Washing day
WASHING DAY
The children are crossAnd I am at loss,For I can't get my washing begun,I've to knead up the bread,And comb Mary's head,And mend Ellen's frock,And it's eleven o'clock,Oh! when will my washing get done?
I've burnt the dinner,Ain't I a sinner,What will my husband say?A knock at the door,And look at the floor!Give me the broomTill I sweep the room—Oh hateful washing day!
Oh! what a clatter!Girls, what's the matter?You've done nothing but fight all the day;You still fight onWhen you know it is wrong,And you're such a botherFor your poor tired mother;Stop that fighting, I say.
Well, washing day is o'er,I breathe freely once more;But I must make a big fire,For my ironing is to do,And I may get through,If I work till bedtime,And that's half-past nine,And next week my washing I'll hire.[Aged 13 years.]