Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay
Some trifling price for freedom through the day.
At this good matron's hut the children meet,
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Who thus becomes the mother of the street.
Her room is small, they cannot widely stray—
Her threshold high, they cannot run away;
Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout;—
Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about;
With band of yarn she keeps offenders in,