Polly Dibbs

Polly Dibbs! Mrs Dibbs,
The washer-woman. Yes.
Prances up ’ere yesterdee
In ’er shabby dress;
Holds her ’ead up bold as brass
Think she owned th’ town!
Ringin’ at me door bell
Like she’d pull it down.

Polly Dibbs! Mother Dibbs!
Standin’ at a tub
Washin’ other people’s clo’es,
Goin’ out to scrub
Other people’s dirty floors.
Charrin’ by the day:
Ringin’ at me door-bell
Like the Queen o’ May!

Impidence? Eemagine it!
’Coz I didn’t come,
Rings again; important like.
Cheek? It struck me dumb!
Apron on an’ down-at-’eel,
Boots all slippy-slop:
Ringin’ at me door-bell
Like she’d never stop!

Flounces in an’ shuts the door —
By your leaf, or not —
Opens, with ’er tremblin’ ’ans
A parcel she has got.
Stands there in ’er workin’ clo’es
Poor an’ patched, an’ worn,
Proudly paternisin’ me
Like a duchess born!

Tells me I must fit ’er, please,
For a Sundee dress.
Has ’er own material —
Crepe-de-chine, no less.
Crepe-de-chine! an’ good at that,
Soft as heaps of foam.
Bought it, if you please, becoz
’Er son is comin’ ’ome.

Coz ’er son is comin’ ’ome!
Consequence? Ho, no!
Must ’ave this, an won’t ’ave that.
Wants it cut just so.
Never mind me customers,
All of ’em can wait.
’Oity, ’oity! We can’t keep
The Queen o’ Sheba late!

Foolish woman, Polly Dibbs:
Think she’d know her place
Since ’er ’usband took an’ died
Leavin’ sich disgrace.
Soft ole sentimental fool!
Dotin’ on ’er son:
Schoolin’ ’im to break ’er ’eart,
Like ’is father done.

Oh, I’ll make her silly dress.
It’s a business deal.
Money’s money — even ’er’s.
That’s the way I feel.
Me? Soft-’earted? Not a bit.
Don’t go thinkin’ that!
Who’s a washer-woman
To fuss about ’er brat?

Polly Dibbs! Mother Dibbs!
’An’s as rough as bags,
Fingerin’ the crepe-de-chine
Like as if it’s rags,
While she talks about ’er son;
An’ tears is in ’er eyes.
Oh, there’s no deceivin’ me,
Cunnin’ as she tries.

Sich a clever boy, she sez.
’Arf inclined to sob.
Been to school an’ comin’ ’ome,
Hopin’ for a job.
Edjicated well, she sez.
City school no less!
So his ma, the Duchess, must
Have ’er Sundee dress.

How she got it I dunno:
Reel expensive stuff.
Scrapin’, savin’ day by day
Till she got enough.
Toilin’, slavin’ week by week
So’s to pay his fees;
Starvin’, likely, while she scrubs
On ’er poor ole knees.

Polly Dibbs! Mother Dibbs!
Tossin’ of ’er ’ead,
Ringin’ at me door-bell
Fit to wake the dead.
Independence? Pays me cash!
’Ate the thought of debt,
But I seen ’er tremblin’ ’ans,
An’ ’er eyes was wet.