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