One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed,
His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime.
'Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?' he said,
'For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!'
'You little ugly Devil,' said I, 'go back to Hell
For the idea you express I will not listen to:
I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well,
Without having to pay attention to orators like you.
'When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work
You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.