Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance; and at night
Lies down secure,—her heart and pocket light.
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit;
Receives no praise—but, though her lot be such,
Toilsome and indigent, she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true—
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;