One day I was walking, I heard a complaining,
And saw an old woman, the picture of gloom.
She gazed at the mud on her doorstep ('twas raining).
And this was her song as she wielded her broom:
Chorus 1
Oh, Life is a toil, and love is a trouble,
Beauty will fade and riches'll flee.
Pleasures they dwindle and prices they double,
And nothing is as I would wish it to be.
Verse 2
There's too much of worriment goes to a bonnet,
There's too much 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.
Verse 3
In March it is mud, it is 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.
Verse 4
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.
Verse 5
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.
Verse 6
With grease and with grime, from corner to center,
Forever at war and forever alert.
No rest for a day lest the enemy enter;
I spend my whole life in struggle with dirt.
Verse 7
Last night in my dreams I was stationed forever
On a far little rock in the midst of the sea.
My one chance of life was a ceaseless endeavour
To sweep off the waves as they swept over me.
Verse 8
Alas! 'Twas no 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.