O Mother Becca Canticrank,
The ways of earth are very rank;
But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.
And toil is overcrowded, Mam,
Intelligence is got by cram;
And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?
No! pray for her, and set her,
As toiler for the sweater,
Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,
With penance to her bones,