She wasn't the least bit pretty, 
And only the least bit gay; 
And she walked with a firm elastic tread, 
In a business-like kind of way. 
Her dress was of coarse, brown woollen, 
Plainly but neatly made, 
Trimmed with some common ribbon 
Or cheaper kind of braid; 
And a hat with a broken feather, 
And shawl of a modest plaid. 

Her face seemed worn and weary, 
And traced with lines of care, 
As her nut-brown tresses blew aside 
In the keen December air; 
Yet she was not old, scarce twenty, 
And her form was full and sleek, 
But her heavy eye, and tired step, 
Seemed of wearisome toil to speak; 
She worked as a common factory girl 
For two dollars and a half a week. 

Ten hours a day of labor 
In a close, ill-lighted room; 
Machinery's buzz for music, 
Waste gas for sweet perfume; 
Hot stifling vapors in summer, 
Chill draughts on a winter's day, 
No pause for rest or pleasure 
On pain of being sent away; 
So ran her civilized serfdom -- 
Four cents an hour the pay. 

"A fair day's work," say the masters, 
And "a fair day's pay," say the men; 
There's a strike -- a rise in wages, 
What effect to the poor girl then? 
A harder struggle than ever 
The honest path to keep; 
And so sink a little lower, 
Some humbler home to seek; 
For living is dearer -- her wages, 
Two dollars and a half a week. 

A man gets thrice the money, 
But then "a man's a man, 
"And a woman surely can't expect 
"To earn as much as he can." 
Of his hire the laborer's worthy, 
Be that laborer who it may; 
If a woman can do a man's work 
She should have a man's full pay, 
Not to be left to starve -- or sin -- 
On forty cents a day. 

Two dollars and a half to live on, 
Or starve on, if you will; 
Two dollars and a half to dress on, 
And a hungry mouth to fill; 
Two dollars and a half to lodge on 
In some wretched hole or den, 
Where crowds are huddled together, 
Girls, and women, and men; 
If she sins to escape her bondage 
Is there room for wonder then.