E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send,
To’t human race the greatest frend,
An’ lived no daht at t’other end
O’ history.
Hur name is nah, yah may depend,
A mistery.

But sprang sho up fra royal blood,
Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?
Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud
Sho did invent;
Hur name sall renk among the good,
If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub,
Sho did at furst begin ta skrub,
Or hed a proper weshin tub,
Its all the same;
Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub,
To get hur name.

In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat,
Th’ poor possessor of wun koat;
Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote,
An’ thus assert,
Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note;
A clean lin’ shirt.

Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways,
While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;
Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase,
Wi’ famous glee.
Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays,
Sho’st lass for me.

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