And matchless in her doing up of frills.
Oft have I marked her on a summer’s day,
Prone o’er her tub, regardless of the heat
With sleeves tuck’d up, she’d stand and scrub away,
And then from lines suspend her work so neat.
Each closing week at eve, she took the road,
With vests, with shirts, with handkerchiefs, and frills
Collars and socks, in parcels neatly stowed,
Pinned to the parcels were her little bills.
One winter’s day I passed her cottage by,