O slavey, my crock-e-ry!
And I would that my tongue dared utter
The wrath that's astir in me.
O well for the labourer's wife,
Who can wash her own tea-things each day!
O well for the labourer's self,
Who has no servant's wages to pay!
But the breakages here go on,
And I have to settle the bill;
And it's oh! for the shards of my vanished cups,