From The Bodleian Library Broadside Ballads collection, Firth c.20(121):

A WOMAN'S WORK IS NEVER OVER
Written by Mr. C. Fry, Author of 'The Orphan Boy's Prayer,' 'A Good Wife's Love,' 'A Good Wife is a Treasure,' &c. &c.

Come all you married women and listen to my song.
You'll acknowledge I am right when it is over.
If you will attention pay, I'll soon prove what I say,
That a married woman's work is never over.
O my! a woman's work is never done.
Some men they think their wives they live in clover,
But if they the truth will speak, they know the live-long week,
That a married woman's work is never over.

O my! list to what I say,
The men they think their wives do live in clover.
Let the world say what it will, I can say and prove it still,
That a married woman's work is never over.

They must wash and iron, too; they must mangle, starch and blue.
They must wash little Mary, too, and Freddy,
And then just like a goose, they get nothing but abuse,
If their husband's dinner is not ready.
O my! when dinner it is o'er—
It's just the same from London down to Dover—
When his pipe he has smoked out, he goes grumbling about.
O a married woman's work is never over.

Some men think it a sin, if you take a drop of gin,
But I can see no harm in it whatever.
When the men go out at night, and come home jolly tight,
No doubt they think themselves vastly clever.
O my! if I caught 'em on a bridge,
With a woman that I know—her name is Plover,
Before you could say, 'bo!' in the water he would go,
For saying that a woman's work is over.

The stove they clean with lead, wash the things and make the bed,
And then they'll go and see poor Mrs. Atkins,
Then they'll run back through the dirt for to wash your dirty shirt,
Mend your trousers and wash the baby's napkins.
O my! a woman is a slave.
She works while her husband is a rover.
She toils her life away, and this I plainly say,
That a married woman's work is never over.

I knew a woman once, and her name was Mrs. Bunce,
And she had a friend, a Mrs. Baker.
Her husband came home one night, said, "You never can do right."
He was by trade an artificial flower maker.
O my! he had scarcely began,
When the flat-iron hit him on the shoulder.
"You wretch, how dare you speak? I've been toiling all the week,
For you know a woman's work is never over."

So women old and young, you've all heard what I've sung
And I'm sure you'll say it's truth that I have spoken,
And the man that says it's wrong, may he never use his tongue,
And his pipe and his 'bacco box be broken.
O my! list to what I say,
And think of this song when it is over.
Now if you say what you will, I can say and prove it still,
That a married woman's work is never over.