XCII.—THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.HOOD.Thomas Hood was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. His life was one of severe toil and much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much, both in prose and verse. He was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos.The following remarkable piece of poetry appeared in the London Punch only a short time before the death of the lamented author. It was written at a time when the attention of benevolent persons in London had been awakened to the inadequate wages paid to poor needlewomen, and their consequent distress; and from the seasonableness of its appearance, as well as its high literary merit, it produced a great effect. It is valuable, as an expression of that deep and impassioned sympathy with suffering, which was a leading trait in Hood’s nature, and forms an attractive element in his writings.
HOOD.
Thomas Hood was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. His life was one of severe toil and much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much, both in prose and verse. He was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos.
The following remarkable piece of poetry appeared in the London Punch only a short time before the death of the lamented author. It was written at a time when the attention of benevolent persons in London had been awakened to the inadequate wages paid to poor needlewomen, and their consequent distress; and from the seasonableness of its appearance, as well as its high literary merit, it produced a great effect. It is valuable, as an expression of that deep and impassioned sympathy with suffering, which was a leading trait in Hood’s nature, and forms an attractive element in his writings.
1. 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[607]pitch,She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”2. Work—work—work!While the cock is crowing aloof![608]And work—work—work!Till the stars shine through the roof!It’s O, to be a slaveAlong with the barbarous Turk,Where woman has never a soul to save,Ifthisis Christian work.3. “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 my dream.4. “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,Ashroudas well as a shirt!5. “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 fast I keep:O God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!6. “Work—work—work!My labor never flags;And what are its wages? A bed of straw,A crust of bread—and rags:A shattered roof—and this naked floor—A table—a broken chair—And a wall so blank my shadow I thankFor sometimes falling there!7. “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,[609]As well as the weary hand!8. “Work—work—work!In the dull December light;And work—work—work!When the weather is warm and bright;While underneath the eavesThe brooding swallows cling,As if to show me their sunny backs,And twit me with the spring.9. “O, but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweet,With the sky above my head,And the grass beneath my feet!For only one short hourTo feel as I used to feel,Before I knew the woes of want,And the walk that costs a meal!10. “O, but for one short hour!A respite,[610]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 bedMy tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread!”11. 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!”
1. 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[607]pitch,She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”2. Work—work—work!While the cock is crowing aloof![608]And work—work—work!Till the stars shine through the roof!It’s O, to be a slaveAlong with the barbarous Turk,Where woman has never a soul to save,Ifthisis Christian work.3. “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 my dream.4. “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,Ashroudas well as a shirt!5. “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 fast I keep:O God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!6. “Work—work—work!My labor never flags;And what are its wages? A bed of straw,A crust of bread—and rags:A shattered roof—and this naked floor—A table—a broken chair—And a wall so blank my shadow I thankFor sometimes falling there!7. “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,[609]As well as the weary hand!8. “Work—work—work!In the dull December light;And work—work—work!When the weather is warm and bright;While underneath the eavesThe brooding swallows cling,As if to show me their sunny backs,And twit me with the spring.9. “O, but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweet,With the sky above my head,And the grass beneath my feet!For only one short hourTo feel as I used to feel,Before I knew the woes of want,And the walk that costs a meal!10. “O, but for one short hour!A respite,[610]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 bedMy tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread!”11. 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!”
1. 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[607]pitch,She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”
1. 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[607]pitch,
She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”
2. Work—work—work!While the cock is crowing aloof![608]And work—work—work!Till the stars shine through the roof!It’s O, to be a slaveAlong with the barbarous Turk,Where woman has never a soul to save,Ifthisis Christian work.
2. Work—work—work!
While the cock is crowing aloof![608]
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,
Ifthisis Christian work.
3. “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 my dream.
3. “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 my dream.
4. “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,Ashroudas well as a shirt!
4. “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,
Ashroudas well as a shirt!
5. “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 fast I keep:O God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!
5. “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 fast I keep:
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
6. “Work—work—work!My labor never flags;And what are its wages? A bed of straw,A crust of bread—and rags:A shattered roof—and this naked floor—A table—a broken chair—And a wall so blank my shadow I thankFor sometimes falling there!
6. “Work—work—work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags:
A shattered roof—and this naked floor—
A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
7. “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,[609]As well as the weary hand!
7. “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,[609]
As well as the weary hand!
8. “Work—work—work!In the dull December light;And work—work—work!When the weather is warm and bright;While underneath the eavesThe brooding swallows cling,As if to show me their sunny backs,And twit me with the spring.
8. “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.
9. “O, but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweet,With the sky above my head,And the grass beneath my feet!For only one short hourTo feel as I used to feel,Before I knew the woes of want,And the walk that costs a meal!
9. “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!
10. “O, but for one short hour!A respite,[610]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 bedMy tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread!”
10. “O, but for one short hour!
A respite,[610]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!”
11. 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!”
11. 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!”
[607]Dolˊ-o-rous, sorrowful; painful.[608]A-loofˊ, at a distance; apart.[609]Be-numbedˊ, made torpid.[610]Resˊ-pite, delay; pause; interval.
[607]Dolˊ-o-rous, sorrowful; painful.
[607]Dolˊ-o-rous, sorrowful; painful.
[608]A-loofˊ, at a distance; apart.
[608]A-loofˊ, at a distance; apart.
[609]Be-numbedˊ, made torpid.
[609]Be-numbedˊ, made torpid.
[610]Resˊ-pite, delay; pause; interval.
[610]Resˊ-pite, delay; pause; interval.