SPRING-CLEANING

Let me sing in mournful numbers

Of the sorrows of the Spring,

When the house is full of plumbers

And the builder has his fling!

Ladders lean on ev'ry landing,

Pails repose on ev'ry stair,

Painters, who on planks are standing,

Block the road to ev'rywhere,

And with pigments evil-smelling

Drive us from our dismal dwelling.

Stairs are carpetless to step on,

Bannisters are far from dry,

While ( like Damocles's weapon )

Plaster threatens from on high.

Any room we chance to enter

Our depression but completes:

Chairs and tables in the centre

Hide beneath encircling sheets,

And the painters ( horrid vandals! )

Have deprived the doors of handles.

Workmen through our windows peering

Spread their pitfalls in our path;

Daily we are found adhering

To some freshly-painted bath;

Daily have our cooks contended

That, however great our grief,

Till the kitchen-range be mended,

We must live on frigid beef;

And at last we grasp the meaning

Of that fatal phrase,‘ Spring-Cleaning’!