---

Robert W Service - Room 6: The Little Workgirl
Work rating: Low

Three gentlemen live close beside me —
A painter of pictures bizarre,
A poet whose virtues might guide me,
A singer who plays the guitar;
And there on my lintel is Cupid;
I leave my door open, and yet
These gentlemen, aren`t they stupid!
They never make love to Babette.

I go to the shop every morning;
I work with my needle and thread;
Silk, satin and velvet adorning,
Then luncheon on coffee and bread.
Then sewing and sewing till seven;
Or else, if the order I get,
I toil and I toil till eleven —
And such is the day of Babette.

It doesn`t seem cheerful, I fancy;
The wage is unthinkably small;
And yet there is one thing I can say:
I keep a bright face through it all.
I chaff though my head may be aching;
I sing a gay song to forget;
I laugh though my heart may be breaking —
It`s all in the life of Babette.

That gown, O my lady of leisure,
You begged to be "finished in haste."
It gives you an exquisite pleasure,
Your lovers remark on its taste.
Yet . . . oh, the poor little white faces,
The tense midnight toil and the fret . . .
I fear that the foam of its laces
Is salt with the tears of Babette.

It takes a brave heart to be cheery
With no gleam of hope in the sky;
The future`s so utterly dreary,
I`m laughing — in case I should cry.
And if, where the gay lights are glowing,
I dine with a man I have met,
And snatch a bright moment — who`s going
To blame a poor little Babette?

And you, Friend beyond all the telling,
Although you`re an ocean away,
Your pictures, they tell me, are selling,
You`re married and settled, they say.
Such happiness one wouldn`t barter;
Yet, oh, do you never regret
The Springtide, the roses, Montmartre,
Youth, poverty, love and — Babette?

That blond-haired chap across the way
With sunny smile and voice so mellow,
He sings in some cheap cabaret,
Yet what a gay and charming fellow!
His breath with garlic may be strong,
What matters it? his laugh is jolly;
His day he gives to sleep and song:
His night`s made up of song and folly.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.