11.
11.
Work, work, work!My labor 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 thankFor sometimes falling there!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!My labor 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 thankFor sometimes falling there!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!
My labor 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!
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.”
12. A pack of cards.
13. Striking.
14. Because words are passing between them.
15. Footman.
16. Because his is allnetprofit.
17. Because he is surrounded with dues (dews).
18. Adam.
19. Heroine.
20. Spark.
21. Tear.
22. Because it is a bad habit.
23. Because it is felt.
24. Because it is a resting-place for the traveler.
25.
There’s a grim hearse horse,In a jolly round trot,To the churchyard a poor man is going, I wot.The road it is rough,And the hearse has no springs,And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings—“Rattle his bones over the stones,He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.”
There’s a grim hearse horse,In a jolly round trot,To the churchyard a poor man is going, I wot.The road it is rough,And the hearse has no springs,And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings—“Rattle his bones over the stones,He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.”
There’s a grim hearse horse,
In a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a poor man is going, I wot.
The road it is rough,
And the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings—
“Rattle his bones over the stones,
He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.”