Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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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