Address ta t' First Wesherwoman

I' sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send, Ta t' human race the greatest friend, An' liv'd, no daht, at t'other end O' history. Her name is nah, yah may depend, A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood, Or some poor slave beyond the Flood, Mi blessing on the sooap an' sud Shoo did invent; Her name sall renk ameng the good, If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub, Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub, Or hed a proper weshin' tub— It's all the same; Aw'd give a crahn, if aw'd to sub, To get her name.

I' this wide world aw'm set afloat, Th' poor regg'd possessor of one coat; Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote, An' thus assert, Tha'rt worthy o' great Shakespeare's note— A clean lin' shirt.

Low is mi lot, an' hard mi ways, While paddlin' thro' life's stormy days; Yet aw will sing t'owd lass's praise, Wi' famous glee; Tho' rude an' rough sud be mi lays, Shoo's t'lass for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair, Their rosy cheeks an' auburn hair; The dying lover's deep despair, Their harps hev rung; But useful wimmin's songs are rare, An' seldom sung.