The Irish Factory-Girl.

THE IRISH FACTORY-GIRL.

SHE ‘s only a poor Factory-girl!
That’s all, perhaps, you see,
Your lip in pride at her may curl,
And scorn her low degree.

A poor exile from Erin’s soil!
That’s all of her you know;
Who in the Mill must daily toil,
And trudge through rain and snow.

You see not through that dusty gown,
Nor in that care-worn face,
The halo that o’er her is thrown,
The mark of Nature’s grace.

You see not there the noble heart,
That beats to friendship strong,
The native charms, above all art,
That to her soul belong.

But He who orders all things well,
In mercy and in power,
Who bids the ocean billows swell,
And paints the lowliest flower,

From out the humbler walks of earth
Takes those the proud may scorn,
Nor heeds the heirs of wealth or birth,
His favorites to adorn.

Such I have seen, such I have known,
And such my soul admires,
Whose merit rare I gladly own,
My simple song inspires.

Oh! may my sympathetic muse
Such virtues still portray;
And from fair Nature ever choose
Her aid to grace my lay.