Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town, There lived a widow with her only son: She had no wealth nor title to renown, Nor any joyous hours, never one. She rose from ragged mattress before sun And stitched all day until her eyes were red, And had to stitch, because her man was dead. Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard, Letting the linen fall upon the floor; And hungry cats would steal in from the yard, And mangy chickens pecked about the door Craning their necks so ragged and so sore To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse, But they got nothing in the widow's house.…
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