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.