Classic Poem

No songs of revolt am I singing,
No paean or saga of old;
But just the poor pot-boilers bringing
Long beers, when your boiler is cold.

No Queen in appearance or manners,
No great Maid of Orleans is she;
Yet high o'er the city her banners
Are flying for all men to see.

Her rampart is breast-high and granite —
By floor that is leaden and grey —
But nothing in trousers dare man it
On what she considers Her Day.

She has nothing to vex her or " worrit "
Her soul while she washes and scrubs;
A shed that might serve as a turret
Is fixed up with copper and tubs.

She is doing 'is duds, if you axes;
She works on a level with cats;
No rent doth she pay, and no taxes,
Yet she dwells in a mansion of flats.

(Not down in the basement or cellar,
Nor anywhere else " on the sly " —
Just glance at her arms ere you tell her
That that's what you mean to imply.)

Bay, harbour and sea are before her:
The grandest of harbours and seas;
The bluest of blue skies is o'er her,
But she never glances at these.

The post-office clock strikes " eleving " ,
And grimly her features are set:
She's been at it since eight, and, Good Heaving!
She ain't got the " cullids " out yet.

And, if you should ask what all this is,
I'll take you and show you the proof —
It is merely the caretaker's missus,
On washing day, up on the roof.