If There Is One Gift That I Prize Above Others, That Tinges With Brightness Whatever I Do, And Gives To The Sombre A Roseate Hue, 'Tis A Legacy Mine From The Nicest Of Mothers, Who Haply The Beauty Of Housewifery Knew, And Taught Me Her Neatness And Diligence Too. So Is My Discomfort A House In Disorder: The Service Uncleanly, The Linen Distained, The Children Like Infantry Rude And Untrained; The Portieres Dusty And Frayed At The Border, By Lavish Expenses The Pocketbook Drained, And Miseries Numberless Never Explained. I Dream Not Of Pleasure In Visions Untidy, A Wrapper All Hole-Y, A Buttonless Shoe, A Slatternly Matron With Nothing To Do; And All The Ill-Luck Charged To Ominous Friday Can Never Compare With The Ills That Ensue On Wretched Housekeeping And Cookery Too. There'S Many A Husband, A Patient Bread-Winner, Gets Up From The Table With Look Of Despair, And Something Akin To The Growl Of A Bear; Not The Saint He Might Be, But A Querulous Sinner - One Driven To Fasting But Not Unto Prayer - Till Epitaphed Thus - "Indigestible Fare." There'S Many A Child, From The Roof-Tree Diurnal, A Scene Of Distraction Or Dullness Severe, With The Longing Of Youth For Diversion And Cheer, That Comes Like The Spring-Time Refreshing And Vernal, Goes Out On A Ruinous, Reckless Career, Returning, If Ever, Not Many A Year. O Negligent Female, Imperfect Housekeeper, Though Faultless In Figure And Charming Of Face, In Ruffles Of Ribbon And Trailings Of Lace Usurping The Part Of A Common Street-Sweeper, You Never Can Pose As A Type Of Your Race In Frowsy Appearance Mid Things Out Of Place. O Fashion-Bred Damsel, With Folly A-Flutter, Until You Have Learned How To Manage A Broom, If Never You Know How To Tidy A Room, Manipulate Bread Or Decide About Butter, The Duties Of Matron How Dare You Assume, Or Ever Be Bride To A Sensible Groom? I Covet No Part With That Army Of Shirkers All Down At The Heels In Their Slipper-Y Tread, Who Hunt For The Rolling-Pin Under The Bed, Who Look With Disdain On Intelligent Workers And Take To The Club Or The Circus Instead Of Mending A Stocking Or Laying The Spread. Oh, I Dream Of A System Of Perfect Housekeeping, Where Mistress And Helper Together Compete In Excellent Management, Quiet And Neat; And Though In The Bosom Of Earth I Am Sleeping, Shall Somebody Live To Whom Life Will Be Sweet And Home An Ideal, Idyllic Retreat.