Song of the Shirt
By Thomas Hood
First published in 1843
(Dedicated to 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).
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!"
