This poem from the nineteenth century is dedicated to characters in Before The Blood: Henry Matthews' mother and sisters, their
friend Bess Masters, and Mrs. Cady and Mr. Langley, who gave them work, as well
as to all those who feel as if their labors are vain and unappreciated.
A Poem for Labor Day
"Song of the Shirt"
By Thomas Hood
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
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work!
work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work—work—work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's O! to be a slave
Along with the
barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is
Christian work!
"Work—work—work,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work—work—work,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset,
and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in
a dream!
"O, men, with
sisters dear!
O, 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,
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,
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!
"Work—work—work!
My labour never
flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of
bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—this naked floor—
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,
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 benumbed,
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—
While underneath the eaves
The brooding
swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with
the spring.
"O! but to
breathe the breath
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,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that
costs a meal!
"O! but for
one short hour!
A respite however
brief!
No blessed leisure
for Love or hope,
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!"
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!"
Illustration by Matt Coundiff for "Visage."
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