Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
 
X. The Pity of It
A Machine Hand
By Thomas Ashe (1836–1889)
 
MY little milliner has slipp’d
  The doctors, with their drugs and ways:
Her years were only twenty-two,
  Though long enough her working-days.
 
At eight she went through wet and snow,        5
  Nor dallied for the sun to shine;
And walk’d an hour to work, and home
  Content if she was in by nine.
 
She had a little gloomy room,
  Up stair on stair, within the roof;        10
Where hung her pictures on the wall,
  Wherever it was weather-proof.
 
She held her head erect and proud,
  Nor ask’d of man or woman aid;
And struggled, till the last; and died        15
  But of the parish pit afraid.
 
Jennie, lie still! The hair you loved
  You wraps, unclipp’d, if you but knew!
We by a quiet graveyard wall,
  For love and pity, buried you!        20
 
 
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