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Hagar

The Singing Maiden, with Other Stories and Rhymes,

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 I. 
 II. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
THE SONG OF THE SCULLION.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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THE SONG OF THE SCULLION.

A Parody.

“Scrape, scrape, scrape!
Hard is my weary lot!
Working from early dawn
Till the shades of night steal on,
Singing the Song of the Pot.”
Thus, in a kitchen lone,
A dark and dismal spot,
Where the sunbeams entered not,
A scullion, in dolorous tone,
Sat singing the Song of the Pot.
“Wash, wash, wash!
Will the washing ever be o'er?
Will the time ever come to me?
What a joyful time 'twill be
When I shall never more
Wash, wash, wash!

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“Scrape, scrape, scrape!
Oh, the ladies that pass me by
With a curl of the scornful lip!
Why should they leisurely sip
From a golden cup, while I
Scrape, scrape, scrape?
“Scour, scour, scour!
How proudly they rustle past
Robes of silk, raised daintily
Lest they're soiled in touching me.
Happy they! while I, alas!
Scour, scour, scour!
“Stoop, stoop, stoop!
Till my back is weary and weak,
And dizzy and hot my brain;
Who cares for a scullion's pain,
Or her pale and sunken cheek?
Stoop, stoop, stoop!”
Thus, in a kitchen lone,
A dark and dismal spot,
Where the sunbeams entered not,
A scullion, in dolorous tone,
Sat singing the Song of the Pot.