Classic Poem

She minds the childher all the day,
A baby tucked inside her shawl;
Faulting the young ones when they stray
Along the street beyond her call.

Her mother has not time to spare
For sittin' under chick or child,
So Katey has the lot to care,
The lads to keep from running wild.

The sense comes soon to thim that's poor,
Herself could scarcely walk when she
Made room for younger ones galore,
And rocked the baby on her knee.

Barefooted, with her share of dirt,
But steadfast for her years is Kate;
The likes of her don't come to hurt,
Though sure she's only rising eight.

You'll meet her streeling through the rain,
The baby sleeping on her breast,
Or by some big shop window pane
Lookin' how quality is dressed.

Happy as little kings they stand,
Staring at cakes or sweets or toys;
She has a sister by the hand,
Her skirts are clutched by two small boys.

Their faces pressed against the glass,
They do be lettin' on to choose
The best of everything they pass,
Toy soldiers, dolls, or scarlet shoes.

Then through the chapel door they streel
When Katey bids to say a prayer;
Hand clasped in hand the young ones kneel
To beg God have them in His care.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There's other girls in this same street
As careless as the breeze of June;
They do be dancing on their feet
The time the organ plays a tune.

A skipping rope is their delight,
The lamp-post serves them for a swing,
You'll say that Katey has a right
To jump with them and dance and sing.

You think her life is hard, may-be?
You'd have her playing bat and ball?
But sure the best of games, says she,
Is playing mother to them all.