Woman’s Lot

Image from Women on the Border: Maryland Perspectives of the Civil War

WOMAN’S LOT.

Oh! say not woman’s lot is hard,
Her path a path of sorrow;
To-day perchance, some joy debarred
May yield more joy tomorrow.

It is not hard — it cannot be,
To speak, in tongues of gladness,
To hush the sigh of misery,
And sooth the brow of sadness.
It is not hard sweet flowers to spread,
To strew the path with roses;
To smooth the couch and rest the head,
Where some loved friend reposes,

It is not hard, to trim the hearth
For brothers home returning;
To wake the songs of harmless mirth,
When winter fires are burning.

It is not hard, a sister’s love
To pay with love as tender;
When cares perplex, and trials prove,
A sister’s help to render.

It is not hard, when troubles come,
And doubts and fears distressing,
To shelter in a fathers home,
And feel a mother’s blessing.

It is not hard, when storms arise
‘Mid darkness and dejection,
To look to Heaven with trusting eyes,
And ask its kind protection.

Then say not woman’s lot is hard,
Her path the path of sorrow ;
Today, perchance, some joy debarred
May yield sweet peace tomorrow.

Richland County Observer (Richland Center, Wisconsin) Dec 25, 1855

Song of the Sewing-Machine

Image from Hart Cottage Quilts

Song of the Sewing-Machine.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

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.

Richland County Observer (Richland Center, Wisconsin) May 4, 1858