For International Womens Day

 

"Oh! What an implement of torture have I acquired in you",

The first words were spoken at your birth, you would never have heard

Uttered by father George, who wouldn't, or couldn't, love you, 

But you loved him,  eternally side by side interred.

 

Eighteen fifteen, death to the Napoleonic Wars, but birth

Of Ada Byron, fair daughter to the incestuous Lord,

Saved, from self, by mother, for a life of logic and reason,

Whilst dear papa George frolicked and gambolled in lands far aboard.

 

No greater mathematical brain did any other claim,

Your grasp of computation is so far above average,

Through your work, you were courted by men of science,

None more so than the father of computing, Charles Babbage.

 

You painstakingly translated Menabrea's French article,

About Babbage's Analytical Engine machine,

Elaborating those writings with your copious notes,

With the first programmable algorithm. Computer queen.

 

Your firm grip of the coming digital world was inspired,

The digitalisation of music, text, sound, and pictures,

Bird anatomy showed the proposition of manned flight,

Brewster, Wheatstone, and Faraday stood in awe like fixtures.

 

Throughout your life there seemed to be,  easy come, and easy go,

Marriage, your children, your title, Lady Lovelace, and early death,

Gambling regularly, especially horses, mostly without care,

Losing three thousand pounds only triggers a sudden intake of breath.

 

You understand best the unique analytical engine,

You saw more of its true potential than just a number cruncher,

But you can’t  help Babbage see, even on your ‘Philosophers walk’,

There must have been times you thought him just a card puncher.

 

History has a  knack for forgetting visionaries,

Cruelly history forgot any of your contributions

It would be a hundred years till you were remembered,

'Enchantress of Numbers' Babbage's attribution

 

So now lying juxtaposed with Lord Byron, scientist, and poet,

Inside the tiny village church of Mary Magdalene, Hucknall,

History is slowly recalling your accomplishments,

Granting recognition of your talents and struggles.