And wondered where the worthy dame could be,
I saw a heap of clothes disordered lie,
Nor at the tub, nor at the lines was she!
The piercing cold had laid her low at last,
Her busy nimble hands are now at rest,
They’re bleaching in the chilly northern blast,
Pale as the shirts their skilful fingers press’d.
Adieu! ye spotless vests of white Marseilles,
So white ye gave me pleasure to put on;
Ye snowy bosomed shirts, a long farewell;