Classic Poem

I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,
Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,
An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end
O’ history.
Her name is nah, yah may depend,
A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,
Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,
Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud
Shoo did invent;
Her name sall renk ameng the good,
If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub,
Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub,
Or hed a proper weshin’ tub—
It’s all the same;
Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub,
To get her name.

I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat,
Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat;
Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote,
An’ thus assert,
Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note—
A clean lin’ shirt.

Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways,
While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;
Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise,
Wi’ famous glee;
Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays,
Shoo’s t’lass for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair,
Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair;
The dying lover’s deep despair,
Their harps hev rung;
But useful wimmin’s songs are rare,
An’ seldom sung.