Her arm V-folded within the tin

that’s clenched under her armpit,

She strides, her gait straight

Her bare feet slide fast,

Her eyes fixed far

She nears the beerhall.

On her way back

She’s the queen;

She’s slow in her strides

Careful in her holds_

That are as tender now as a mother’s hand_

Round the tin that’s on her head

Bubbling the bitter brown beer

That keeps men and husbands

Away from this troublous would,

Together in her warm homely house.