My own little pod

I read this song in a book yesterday. It was popular in the beginging og the ninetenth century. We have come so far and yet I still found this funny and spot on for all of us women who will one day be "buried in dirt"



A Housewife’s Lament: Life is a toil
One day I was walking, I heard a complaining,
I saw a poor woman, the picture was gloom.
She gazed at the mud on her doorstep (twas Raining),
And this was her song as she wielded her broom:

CHORUS:
"Oh life is a toil, and love is a trouble,
Beauty will fade and riches will flee,
Wages will dwindle and prices will double
And nothing is as I would wish it to be."

"There’s too much of worriment goes to a bonnet,
There’s too much of ironing goes to a shirt.
There’s nothing that pays for the time you waste on it,
There’s nothing that lasts us but trouble and dirt.

"In March it is mud, it’s slush in December,
The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust.
In fall the leaves litter, in muddy September
The wallpaper rots and the candlesticks rust.

There are worms on the cherries and slugs on the roses,
And ants in the sugar and mice in the pies.
The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes
And ravaging roaches and damaging flies.

"It’s sweeping at six and it’s dusting at seven,
It’s victuals at eight and it’s dishes at nine.
It’s potting and panning from ten to eleven.
We scarce break our fast till we plan how to dine.

"With grease and with grime from corner to center,
Forever at war and forever alert.
Nor rest for a day lest the enemy enter,
I spend my whole life in the struggle with dirt.

"Last night in my dreams I was stationed forever,
On a far distant rock in the midst of the sea.
My one task of life was a ceaseless endeavor,
To brush off the waves as the swept over me.

"Alas! ‘Twas a dream-ahead I behold it,
I see I am helpless my fate to avert!"
She lay down her broom, her apron she folded.
She lay down and died and was buried in dirt.