A Machine Hand

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 or snow,
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;
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
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!