“Sign the petition!” “Write my name!” “She said, ask me!” — oh, she's fooling; Where do you think a girl like me Could find the time for so much schooling?
Why, I've been here since I was eight or so — That's ten years now — and it seems like longer; The hours are from eight till six — you see It wears one out — I once was stronger.
“A bad cough!” oh, that's nothing, sir; It comes from the dust, and bending over. It hurts me sometimes — no, not now. “This!” why, a flower, a bit of clover.
I picked it up as I came to work — It grew in the grass in some one's airy, Where it stood, and nodded all alone Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.
“Fond of flowers!” I like them — yes — Though, goodness knows, I do n't see many — I'd have to buy them — they cost so much — And I never can spare a single penny.
“Go to the park!” — how can I, sir? The only day that I have is Sunday; And then there's always so much to do That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!— why, when I think Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking — I was country-bred, sir — my heart swells so That I — there, there, what's the use of thinking!
If I could write, sir — “make a cross, And let you write my name below it” — No, please; I'm ashamed I can n't, sometimes,— I do n't want all the girls to know it.
And what's the use of it, anyway? They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, “If you're not suited, you'd better leave” — There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt — Our head just worships his own young daughter, Just my age, sir — she's gone away To spend the Summer across the water.
But us — oh, well, we're only “hands,” Do you think to please us they'll bear losses? No, not a cent's worth — ah, you'll see — I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
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