The Sewing Machine Poem by Thomas Cowherd

The Sewing Machine

I sing the Sewing Machine,
The blessings it brings to the fair.
Some of those blessings I've seen,
And therefore its praises declare.
'Tis a curious thing
Of which I now sing,
And poets have sung it before me;
But if the theme's good,
'Twill be well understood
I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine!
Whose form is so graceful and neat;
Thou of inventions art Queen,
And to look at thy work is a treat.
Each nice burnished wheel,
With the plate of pure steel,
Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges,
All speak of the skill
Which the genius at will
Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine!
No visions of gloom and despair
Float over my mind serene,
As I thy performance compare
To the old-fashioned stitch,
The dread sorrows which
Accompanied work by the fingers
Of those forced to sew
'Midst a life full of woe.
With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine!
Thy musical click-a-click-click,
Removes far away the spleen
From those who of toiling are sick.
Thy task speeds along,
While the fair ones in song
Give vent to their feelings of gladness.
How diff'rent I ween
From the sight often seen
By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See 'Song of the Shirt.']

Dutiful Sewing Machine!
Now cheerfully stitching away,
Neatly and quickly, as seen
In the things by my wife made to-day;
Enraptured am I,
For no heart-bursting sigh
Escapes from the dear operator;
But a smile of delight
Is now alwavs in sight,
Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine!
How thankful am I to the man
Through many years who has been
Thus carefully forming thy plan!
May smiles from the fair,
Rid of much toil and care-
Shine on him, in moments of anguish.
May their tender hands
To obey his commands
Be ready, should he in life languish.

Error Success