  TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE. It's a shame, so it is,—men can't Let alone Jobs as is Woman's right to do—and go about there Own— Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up,—and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals,—for upsetting of the Sudds When the world wagged well enuff—and Wommen washed your old dirty duds, I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no stream Ingins, that's Flat,— But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as tidy and gentlemanny for all that— I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem,—But that was a joke! For I never see none come of it,—that's out of it—but only sum Smoak— And for All your Power of Horses about your Ingins you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs—and curse you, you know that's true! And for All your fine Perspectuses,—howsomever you bewhich 'em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do— It aant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher can take a Bird'shigh view! But Thats your lookout—I've not much to do with that—But pleas God to hold up fine, Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can—and Ill say it behind your face— But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,— As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it—Well thear's a Pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things, or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel—and that ant your Fault. Only you ought to leafe the Linnens to them as has larn'd,— For if it warnt for Washing,—and whare Bills is concarnd What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Edication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any Cityation. Well, what I says is This—when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, Thof a Sheriff might know Better, than make things for slaughter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing balls,— But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Stream rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple's grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Bo-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steam has ruined (G—d] forgive mee!) their lively Hoods, Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at— They won't do for Angell's—nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that's all Bespoke,— For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk Do their own of Themselves—even the bettermost of em—aye, and even them of middling degrees— Why God help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers,—and that's what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing— You ant, curse you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by you next door neighbours— Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp— And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They'll scruntch your Bones some day—I'll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation— And can't be dun without in any Country But a Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs— But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nayther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd know better than Taking the Close off one's Backs— And let your neighbours oxin and Asses alone,— And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone! Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins,—and leave the washing to we That nose what's what—Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day— When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all, And Crist mass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite in his Chare— Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew With a vast more like That,—and all along of Steam Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam— But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt! Yourn with Anymocity, Bridget Jones. |
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