I met a woman of the Ward;
She was in gay attire;
Her blouse was blue, her toes were through,
Her ear-rings flashed like fire.
A little boy with lustrous eyes
Tugged at her coloured skirt;
His skin was warm as the southern born,
And he was caked in dirt.
Two women on the sunny street--
We fell to friendly talk
Of grocers' ways, and how it pays
To purchase as you walk.
I asked her, as a neighbour might,
If she had news to tell.
She answered me, "Oh, quiet-lee,
I think we soon raise hell!
"Too much we give to grocer-men;
Too much the rich have place;
More war to-day is the only way
To put rich in hees place!
"We speak a leetle, you and I,
Some papers scatter round,
Soon rich will be, quite quiet-lee,
All trampled on the ground.
"My man, he has a job all right,
But he might have much more.
Make leetle war, and there we are:
No rich man at our door."
The dusky boy with lustrous eyes
Listened to his mamma,
And then said he, quite quiet-lee,
"Most dear, to-day I saw
"One motor car that I will own
When I am grown a man!"
His beauty spoke, in eyes, in throat,
As just sheer beauty can.
And she forgot the little war,
The beckoning blood and dirt;
She smoothed his curls, so like a girl's,
And smoothed his gay striped shirt.
"Grow up, be good, my little boy;
One motor you may run!"
Her eyes burned deep, war fell asleep
As she looked on her son.
* * * * *
I met a woman of the Ward;
She was in gay attire;
Her blouse was blue, her toes were through,
Her ear-rings flashed like fire.