Washing Day (excerpt)
Washing Day (excerpt)
Anna Lætitia Barbauld
The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod 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 grey streak of dawn,
The red-armed washers come and chase repose.
Verse breaks and indentation are preserved. Wrapped lines have a hanging indent. Width adapts to your screen.
Monthly Magazine, 1797.
