Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Saturday

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Saturday.
In glowing terms I would this day indite(Its morn, its noon, its afternoon and night),The busiest day throughout the week—the latter day;A day whereon odd matters are made even,The dirtiest, cleanest too, of all the seven,The scouring pail, pan, plate, and platter day;A day of general note and notability,A plague to gentlefolks and prime gentility,E'en to the highest ranks—nobility!And, yet a day (barring all jokes) of great utility,Both to the rich as well as the mobility.A day of din—of clack—a clatter day;For all, howe'er they mince the matter, say    This day they dread;    A day with hippish, feverish, frenzy fed,Is that grand day of fuss and bustle,—Saturday.

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