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.