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.