The WASHING WEEK. To Capt. G. THOMPSON.—Kew, May 25, 1765

In this, dear George, we both agree, (You bred in camp, I bred at sea,) That cleanliness is oft A cursed plague about a house, And always met our just abuse, When boys with Mrs Croft.

But to the beggar and the king, Clean linen's a reviving thing. Yet these our plagues don't reach; The beggar strips with jocund morn, In some quick stream, and on the thorn Spreads out his rags to bleach.

The king, great man, sends all his out, Not caring for a single clout: But what's more happy still, He's not oblig'd to count the rags, Nor stuff'em into canvass bags, Oh! no—nor write the bill.

But Lord have mercy on us all! Whene'er we wash, all hands must fall To something or another; For madam scolds, and flies about, Now up, now down, now in, now out, Dabbling thro' wet and smother.

This cursed time all comfort flies, At six she starts; come Ned, come rise, And get the lines hung out! Yes, to be sure, (my dear) I cry, I dare as well be hang'd as lie, For fear my dove should pout.

Breakfast is got, and whipt away, (Because the washers want their tea) Before that I've half done:— The doors all open—linen spread, The sky looks black,—come hither, Ned, Shall we have rain or sun?

My dear, you need not be in pain, It does not look, I think, like rain; O! then we'll hang out more: When lo! the words have hardly past, But puff there comes a heavy blast, And all must be rins'd o'er.

Then ten-fold falls the peal on me, You ass, to be ten years at sea, See, see the linen do!— I sneak away, to have a smile, Snug, while I hear her all the while, Calling me black and blue.

From such unlucky storms of rain, Nothing with me goes well again, The dinner comes—and cold: The meat, I cry, of soap-suds twangs, Up madam gets, the door she bangs, And re-begins to scold.

But what still troubles more my mind, Amidst such griefs at once to find, The washer, as she wrings, Cracking some jest—then o'er the tub Pauses awhile—and ev'ry rub, With pleasure sweats and sings.

I hate, I must confess, all dirt, And truly love a well-wash'd shirt, Yet once a-month this reek, Is more than flesh and blood can bear; And him I hate—O make his share A washing every week!