When Mother Scrubs

When mother scrubs us Sunday morn,

     There’s lively times you bet;

There’s faces wry, with howl and cry

     To keep out of the wet.

There’s argument, and weak excuse

     And faces full forlorn,

When mother scrubs, and digs and rubs

     Us every Sunday morn.

When mother scrubs us there’s a glow

     Of white comes o’er the scene;

A shedding of the old, and new

     Comes where the old has been.

A shrinkage in more ways than one,

     A wish we’d ne’er been born,

When mother scrubs with all her powers,

     On every Sunday morn.

When mother scrubs us Sunday morn

     She gets all out of breath;

She pants and sweats and sighs and frets

     And scrubs us most to death.

She scrubs our backs till they are sore,

     Till skin and flesh are gone;

Then wonders why we’d rather die

     Than wake on Sunday morn.

No wonder Billy Buzzy said

     I was a thin skinned jay;

I’ve got to be, ‘cuz ma, you see,

     Has washed it all away.

O won’t we be a happy lot,

     The wildest ever born,

When we’re too big for ma to dig

     And scrub on Sunday morn!

Sept. 10, 1900