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