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FROM BRIDGET JONES

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 steem Indians, 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 Indians you never had but Two
In my time to draw you About to Fairs–and hang 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,
Tho’ I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do–
It aint as if a Bird’seye Hankicher could take a Birds-high view!
But Thats your look out–I’ve not much to do with that–But pleas God to hold up fine,
I’d show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place,
And Thats more than you Can–and I’ll say it behind your face–
But when Folks talks of washing, it aint for you to Speak,–
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak!
Thinks I, when I heard it–Well there’s a pretty go!
That comes o’ not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling ’em up so!
Till Their friends conies and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault,
But may Hap you havint Larn’d to spel–and That aint your Fault,
Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn’d,–
For if it warnt for Washing,–and whare Bills is concarned
What’s the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womans Headication,
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 steem about!
To be sure its very Well, when Their aint 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,
Tho’ a X Sherif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter,
As if War warnt Cruel enuff–wherever it befalls,
Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls,–
But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs
As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem 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 Beau-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 Steem has ruined (G–d forgive mee) their lively Hoods,
Poor Wommen 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 Angells–nor any Trade like That,
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,–for that’s all Bespoke,–
For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk
Do their own of Themselves–even the better-most of em–aye, and evn them of middling degrees–
Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint Bread and Cheese!
Nor we can’t go a hammering the roads into Dust,
But we must all go and be Bankers,–like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Charnberses,–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 aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing
In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers
And prettily jear’d At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by your next door naybors–
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 the Creation–
And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked 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) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks,
Or youd no better than Taking the close off one’s Backs–
And let your neighbors oxin an Asses alone,–
And every Thing thats hern,–and give every one their Hone!