THE WASHERWOMAN.
With hands all reddened and sore, With back and shoulders low bent, She stands all day, and part of the night Till her strength is well-nigh spent. With her rub—rub—rub, And her wash, rinse, shake, Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks, And the bones begin to ache.
At morn when the sunbeams scatter In rays so golden and bright, She yearns for the hour of even, She longs for the restful night. Still she rubs—rubs—rubs, With the energy born of want, For the larder's empty and must be filled,— The fuel's growing scant.
As long as the heart is blithesome, Will her spirit bear her up, And kindness and love imparteth a zest To sweeten hard life's bitter cup. But to toil—toil—toil, From the grey of the morn till eve, Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear, Which the rich can hardly conceive.