  Beside a somber sally port upon a bastioned isle There dwells a bare-armed laundry girl to serve the rank and file. Her name is Sheila Shanahan, she reigns in Soap Suds Row, The lane that won to luster in the army long ago. She bendeth o’er a wash tub while the sentries walk the walls, And pyramids are builded from the brooding cannon balls. She elevates an army post without the least design, The belle of all the barracks hanging clothes upon a line. Fate ransacked ancient reveries to dower youth’s desire, Unrolled the scrolls of Sidon and the tapestries of Tyre; She pilfered from Parnassus till the gods ran to and fro, Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row. Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan, The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican; The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns, The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons, And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits, The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates; They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan. |
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