The Song of the Shirt
Thomas Hood
1799 to 1845
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With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy red,
A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with the of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of Shirt!"
"Work! Work! Work!
While the is crowing aloof!
And work—work—work,
Till the shine through the roof!
It's O! to be slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where has never a soul to save
If this Christian work!
"Work—work—work
Till the brain begins swim,
Work—work—work
Till the eyes are heavy dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"O, Men with Sisters dear!
O, Men! with and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch—stitch—stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death!
That of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It so like my own,
Because of the fasts keep;
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work—work—work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags.
That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor—
table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work—work—work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work—work—work—
prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well the weary hand.
"Work—work—work,
In the dull light,
And work—work—work,
When the weather is and bright—
While underneath the eaves
The swallows cling,
As if to show me their backs
And twit me with the spring.
"O, but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip primrose sweet!—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For one short hour
To feel as I used feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
"O, for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease heart,
But in their briny bed
My must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!
"Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Work, work, work,
Like the that works by Steam!
A mere machine of and wood
That toils for Mammon's sake—
a brain to ponder and craze
Or a to feel—and break!"
—With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"