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.