"The Giveaway" 

(from THE LOVE LETTERS OF PHYLLIS MCGINLEY, New York, Viking Press, 1957)

Saint Bridget was
  A problem child.
  Although a lass
  Demure and mild,
  And one who strove
  To please her dad,
  Saint Bridget drove
  The family mad.
  For here's the fault in Bridget lay:
  She WOULD give everything away.
 
  To any soul
  Whose luck was out
  She'd give her bowl
  Of stirabout;
  She'd give her shawl,
  Divide her purse
  With one or all.
  And what was worse,
  When she ran out of things to give
  She'd borrow from a relative.
 
  Her father's gold,
  Her grandsire's dinner,
  She'd hand to cold
  and hungry sinner;
  Give wine, give meat,
  No matter whose;
  Take from her feet
  The very shoes,
  And when her shoes had gone to others,
  Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's.
 
  She could not quit.
  She had to share;
  Gave bit by bit
  The silverware,
  The barnyard geese,
  The parlor rug,
  Her little
  niece-'s christening mug,
  Even her bed to those in want,
  And then the mattress of her aunt.
 
  An easy touch
  For poor and lowly,
  She gave so much
  And grew so holy
  That when she died
  Of years and fame,
  The countryside
  Put on her name,
  And still the Isles of Erin fidget
  With generous girls named Bride or Bridget.
 
  Well, one must love her.
  Nonetheless,
  In thinking of her
  Givingness,
  There's no denial
  She must have been
  A sort of trial
  Unto her kin.
  The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
  WHO had the patience of a saint,
  From evidence presented here?
  Saint Bridget?  Or her near and dear?