THE SONG OF THE BROOM.

ust! dust! dust! dust! Carpet, curtain, window, floor; Right, left, thrust, thrust— Clouds are rising more and more! Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep— Kitchen, parlour, passage, stair; Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep— That's what I'm obliged to bear! Dust, dust, dust, dust, In the lofty attic found; Dust, dust, dust, dust, In the cellar underground. Cobwebs, spiders, beetles, flies, Nooks and corners dark and drear, That is where my pathway lies, Month by month and year by year; Buckets, boxes, brushes, boots, Near to me for ever dwell; No one lets me share the fruits Of the work I do so well; Boys and girls will often play In some clean and pleasant room, Making litter all the day, For the poor unhappy broom. No one shows me gratitude; No one cares a jot for me, For when work is done I'm stood In some gloomy scullery. But no matter! time will come— When my hair is worn away, I shall rest, while some new broom Does what I must do to-day.