The maid

From hunger and distress,
when life is in a mess,
in a pale melancholy dress,
she faces the mistress.

She wipes and sweeps,
she sweats and weeps,
never warm and weak,
she works every week.

from suffering and pain,
as days let drain,
never uttered complain,
only tears to gain.

Wages not much,
but life is as such,
to feed the young ones,
she toils and runs.

from hunger and distress,
to another mistress,
i wonder from what she is made,
my wonderful maid.