Sally Jane
Sally Jane hung out the clothes
As her employer did upstairs doze
It was the same every week
Sally Jane's outlook was so bleak
An orphan child found in the lane
By the Reverend Parson Cane
He brought her to the parsonage
Her first job was to turn each bible's page
Hidden from view below the pulpit
Inside it's depths she would happily sit
Her next job was when she was a bit older
Carried milk pails slung across each shoulder
She whooshed the laying hens and cocks
And scaring crows as she ran about
shaking the hems of her frocks
When grown she had no permanent home
She preferred to live outdoors and to roam
As night fell a haystack, or in the winter a farmer's barn
On stormy nights that wetted the land
Sally Jane's cover was never planned
She arrived soaked through at any random door
They let her in and she slept on the floor
Now in her fiftieth year
Many village folk shed a tear
She had spontaneously combusted in John's hayrick
There had been no indication she had ever been sick
Her funeral was yesterday
Poor Sally Jane, it's a mystery.
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