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