html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }The children are cross
And I am at loss,
For I can't get my washing begun,
I've to knead up the bread,
And comb Mary's head,
And mend Ellen's frock,
And it's eleven o'clock,
Oh! when will my washing get done?
I've burnt the dinner,
Ain't I a sinner,
What will my husband say?
A knock at the door,
And look at the floor!
Give me the broom
Till I sweep the room—
Oh hateful washing day!
Oh! what a clatter!
Girls, what's the matter?
You've done nothing but fight all the day;
You still fight on
When you know it is wrong,
And you're such a bother
For your poor tired mother;
Stop that fighting, I say.
Well, washing day is o'er,
I breathe freely once more;
But I must make a big fire,
For my ironing is to do,
And I may get through,
If I work till bedtime,
And that's half-past nine,
And next week my washing I'll hire.
[Aged 13 years.]