HE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

(_Very Latest Version._)

["There is a grievance which has taken hold in the last few years, under
which we are all groaning and complaining, without, as far as I can see,
any present remedy. I allude to the shameful way in which our linen is
destroyed and knocked about by the existing race of Washerwomen in the
Metropolis."--_M. J. G.'s Letter on "London Laundries," in the Daily
Telegraph._]

With wristbands grubby and worn,
With collars ragged and frayed,
A man moaned over a shirt all rags,
Cursing the laundress trade.
"Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
With lime for extracting the dirt;
With chemicals rot, and with wire-brushes rub!"--
_That_'s the new Song of the Shirt.

Buy! Buy! Buy!
Though I'm but a poor Clerk, with scant "oof,"
Yet it's buy--buy--buy!
(My hosier's bills furnish full proof),
And it's O! to be a slave
To my Laundress, who's worse than a Turk.
I seldom look nice, and I never can save;
And this is woman's work!

Rub! Rub! Rub!
Till they're rugged at edge and at rim;
Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
Till with scissors the cuffs I must trim.
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam;
And all the buttonholes gape, and the studs
Drop out in a golden stream.

O Men with sisters who wash,
With housewifely mothers or wives,
Who "do up" your linen, and _don't_ "put it out,"
You lead endurable lives!
Wash--Starch--Iron!
_That_ may mean home dampness and dirt;
But at least your collars won't chafe your neck,
And you'll boast a wearable shirt!

But why do I dream of soap,
Or of honest knuckle-bone?
Now most men's shirts come home in a shape
That's dreadfully like my own--
That's dismally like my own,
Unless a home laundry they keep;
Great Scott! that shirts should be so dear,
And chloride and wire so cheap!

Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
The wire-brush never flags;
And what's the result? A collar that's rough,
And a front that's ever in rags!
That frayed-out wristband worries me sore,
It catches--and shows--the dirt.
And as for the collar!!!--I'll bet you a dollar
You've never one _clean_ to your shirt.

Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of old country linen so sweet,
Wherein lavender was spread,
Which was dried on the grass at our feet!
For only one