Song of the Sewing-Machine

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!

Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;

And, unlike the drudges human,

Never weary night or day;

Never shedding tears of sorrow,

Never mourning friends untrue,

Never caring for the morrow,

Never begging work to do.

Poverty brings no disaster!

Merrily I glide along,

For no thankless, sordid master,

Ever seeks to do me wrong:

No extortioners oppress me,

No insulting words I dread —

I've no children to distress me

With unceasing cries for bread.

I'm of hardy form and feature,

For endurance framed aright;

I'm not pale misfortune's creature,

Doomed life's battle here to fight:

Mine's a song of cheerful measure,

And no under-currents flow

To destroy the throb of pleasure

Which the poor so seldom know.

In the hall I hold my station,

With the wealthy ones of earth,

Who commend me to the nation

For economy and worth,

While unpaid the female labor,

In the attic-chamber lone,

Where the smile of friend or neighbor

Never for a moment shone.

My creation is a blessing

To the indigent secured,

Banishing the cares distressing

Which so many have endured:

Mine are sinews superhuman,

Ribs of oak and nerves of steel —

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman

Born to toil and not to feel.