Liza sits on a three-legged stool all day
beneath the railway-stairs.
(Liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy wares.)
The boots that Liza wears to-day were worn
a score of years ago
By Dick the tramp who threw them away as
far as ever he could throw.
The petticoats that Liza wears around her
limbs of sticks and skin
Were thrown aside with tall disdain into a
back-street rubbish bin.
But O the bonnet that Liza wears, it is the
summit of her pride;
A big limp feather hangs over her nose and
two more hang on either side.
There's no more stately woman than Liza,
be she the sought of a score of kings.
(Liza is a shadowy woman, selling shadowy things.)
All day long she sits upright, waiting upon
her three-legged stool,
Until the hosts of little children come tumbling
homeward out of school.
Then Liza shows her wooden tray whenever
the children meet her eye.
"Come along, babies, only a kiss for any
little dainty you may buy.
Purple figs from a Grecian garden, pomegranate
blossoms blazing red.
Jangle bells of langling silver to wrangle
around of a wee girl's head."
Liza's fingers twitch and tighten, her deep-down
eyes they are flecked and starred.
But her voice is like a moan in a rifted chimney
and you can only hear it if you listen very hard.
Never the little children hear, they toddle
homeward day by day.
--Who would look at a bogey-woman whispering
over an empty tray?
Ironically floats the bobbing feather over
Liza's hungry eye.
"Isn't there just one wee little baby to come
to my face and kiss and buy?"
... All day long and all year round she
waits, but no one pays her price.
(Liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy merchandise.)