Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a
      stretch, perchance,
  Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through
      the steam like spectres dance;
  Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage
      blocked! 
  Oh, I haven’t a doubt that the dainty dames—­if they only knew!—­would be
      sorely shocked.

  Typhoid!  Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our
      trade;
  But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a
      world afraid;
  And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the
      stifling fume,
  Or what if we linger a little longer?  Scant rays of comfort such life
      illume.

  Grievances, BET?  Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is
      sorely sick
  Of the moans and groans of the likes of us.  When the whip, the needle,
      the spade, the pick,
  Are all on strike for a higher wage, ’tis a worry, of course, to the
      well-to-do,
  And a sleek Home-Sec, must “decline to pledge” support official to me
      and you.

  Of course, of course!  Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and
      stir their bile? 
  Why, it’s all along of our “discontent,” and the Agitator’s insidious
      guile. 
  But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts,
  And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.

  Those bad, bad ’Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer
      pay;
  Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub!  Why should we women not
      have our say
  In the Park o’ Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL
      the “Whip”? 
  The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance—­which they
      mustn’t let slip: 

  An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame
      the quiz. 
  We dream of “Washing as well it might be”; we’ll show them “Washing as
      now it is.”
  We know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the
      aching back,
  The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the
      hurried snack.

  There may—­who knows?—­be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET!  Just
      think o’ that! 
  Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl.  The Sweater’s strong, and
      appeal falls flat
  On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go;
  But “evil is wrought by want of thought.” says some poet, I think;—­so
      we’ll let them know!