By means of one good lady were all these wonders wrought,
By Caroline Chisholm's energy, benevolence, and thought,
Instead of making here and there a convert of a Turk,
She has made idle multitudes turn fruitfully to work.
The ragged pauper crawling towards a parish grave
She roused—directed to a home beyond the western wave;
She smoothed his weary passage across the troubled deep,
With food, and air, and decencies of ship-room and of sleep.
There's many a wife and mother will bless that lady's name,
Embracing a fat infant—who might else have drowned the same,