| |
| WITH fingers weary and worn, | |
| With eyelids heavy and red, | |
| A woman sat in unwomanly rags, | |
| Plying her needle and thread— | |
| Stitch! stitch! stitch! | 5 |
| In poverty, hunger, and dirt, | |
| And still with a voice of dolorous pitch | |
| She sang the “Song of the Shirt!” | |
| |
| “Work! work! work! | |
| While the cock is crowing aloof! | 10 |
| And work—work—work, | |
| Till the stars shine through the roof! | |
| It ’s Oh! to be a slave | |
| Along with the barbarous Turk, | |
| Where woman has never a soul to save, | 15 |
| If this is Christian work! | |
| |
| “Work—work—work | |
| Till the brain begins to swim; | |
| Work—work—work | |
| Till the eyes are heavy and dim. | 20 |
| Seam, and gusset, and band, | |
| Band, and gusset, and seam, | |
| Till over the buttons I fall asleep, | |
| And sew them on in a dream! | |
| |
| “Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! | 25 |
| Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! | |
| It is not linen you ’re wearing out, | |
| But human creatures’ lives! | |
| Stitch—stitch—stitch, | |
| In poverty, hunger, and dirt, | 30 |
| Sewing at once, with a double thread, | |
| A Shroud as well as a Shirt. | |
| |
| “But why do I talk of Death? | |
| That Phantom of grisly bone, | |
| I hardly fear his terrible shape, | 35 |
| It seems so like my own— | |
| It seems so like my own, | |
| Because of the fasts I keep; | |
| Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, | |
| And flesh and blood so cheap! | 40 |
| |
| “Work—work—work! | |
| My labor 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— | 45 |
| A table—a broken chair— | |
| And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank | |
| For sometimes falling there. | |
| |
| “Work—work—work! | |
| From weary chime to chime, | 50 |
| Work—work—work, | |
| As prisoners work for crime! | |
| Band, and gusset, and seam, | |
| Seam, and gusset, and band, | |
| Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d, | 55 |
| As well as the weary hand. | |
| |
| “Work—work—work, | |
| In the dull December light, | |
| And work—work—work, | |
| When the weather is warm and bright, | 60 |
| While underneath the eaves | |
| The brooding swallows cling | |
| As if to show me their sunny backs | |
| And twit me with the spring. | |
| |
| “Oh! but to breathe the breath | 65 |
| Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, | |
| With the sky above my head, | |
| And the grass beneath my feet, | |
| For only one short hour | |
| To feel as I used to feel, | 70 |
| Before I knew the woes of want | |
| And the walk that costs a meal, | |
| |
| “Oh, but for one short hour! | |
| A respite however brief! | |
| No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, | 75 |
| But only time for Grief! | |
| A little weeping would ease my heart, | |
| But in their briny bed | |
| My tears must stop, for every drop | |
| Hinders needle and thread!” | 80 |
| |
| With fingers weary and worn, | |
| With eyelids heavy and red, | |
| A woman sat in unwomanly rags, | |
| Plying her needle and thread— | |
| Stitch! stitch! stitch! | 85 |
| 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!” | |
| |
