Classic Poem

What do I think of the women that's in it?
'Tis little enough;
If you offered them flax would they throuble to spin it?
Faith! I've a notion before they'd begin it
You'd wait for your stuff.

Would they pick wool from the hedges and ditches?
We did in my day.
But it's easier plans they have now to make riches:
Why would you sew when machines makes your stitches?
Sure, that's what they say.

'Tis truth I'd no hand for making a letter,
But where was the lack?
An' I couldn't read books any more than that setter.
But for baking or stitching there wasn't a better,
Or making a brack.

The black fasts were kept without hesitation,
I tell you no lie.
Arrah! now there's no manner of strength in the nation,
It's sorra a one but needs dispensation
For fear they would die.

The way they are now they're seeking their pleasure,
The days are too slow.
They'd look twice at a spade were they hunting for treasure,
It's towns that they want, and evenings of leisure
To streel to and fro.

What is it they're afther there in the city
That takes them away?
It's new clothes they'll be buying to make themselves pretty;
No value at all — an' sure that's a pity.
They'll know it some day.

What do I think of the race that we're rarin'?
They're not worth my shawl.
For it's sooner they're threadbare an' nobody carin'.
Mine was the days — but there's no good comparin'.
God help us all.