The Song of the Shirt
Thomas Hood
1799 to 1845
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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"Work—work—work!
"O, but to breathe the breath
For only one short hour
The brooding swallows cling,
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
"Work—work—work!
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
"Work—work—work
It's O! to be a slave
As if to show me their sunny backs
Stitch—stitch—stitch,
To feel as I used to feel,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
And work—work—work,
A little weeping would ease my heart,
Plying her needle and thread—
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And work—work—work,
From weary chime to chime,
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
It seems so like my own—
That toils for Mammon's sake—
A table—a broken chair—
But only time for Grief!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
Work, work, work,
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
It seems so like my own,
O God! that bread should be so dear,
A crust of bread—and rags.
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work—work—work,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
But human creatures' lives!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
And sew them on in a dream!
Without a brain to ponder and craze
If this is Christian work!
But in their briny bed
Where woman has never a soul to save
While underneath the eaves
Work—work—work
Before I knew the woes of want
In the dull December light,
When the weather is warm and bright—
Along with the barbarous Turk,
My labour never flags;
With eyelids heavy and red,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"
As prisoners work for crime!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
"O, Men with Sisters dear!
A respite however brief!
For sometimes falling there!
A mere machine of iron and wood
Seam, and gusset, and band,
A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Work—work—work—
Because of the fasts I keep;
Plying her needle and thread—
And twit me with the spring.
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
My tears must stop, for every drop
"Seam, and gusset, and band,
With fingers weary and worn,
"Work! Work! Work!
—With fingers weary and worn,
Hinders needle and thread!
"But why do I talk of Death!
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
"O, but for one short hour!
Till the stars shine through the roof!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And the walk that costs a meal!
O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!
Till the brain begins to swim,
As well as the weary hand.
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
That Phantom of grisly bone,
That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor—
With the sky above my head,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
Like the Engine that works by Steam!
Or a heart to feel—and break!"
With eyelids heavy and red,
And still with the voice of dolorous pitch
And the grass beneath my feet;
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!—