THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

BY THOMAS HOOD

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!

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;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread — and rags,

That shattered roof - and this naked floor

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

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.

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!”

FROM "THE WATER-BABIES"

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY

"When all the world is young, lad, and all the trees

are green,

And ev'ry goose a swan, lad, and ev'ry lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, and round the

world away,

Young blood must have its course, lad, and ev'ry dog his day.

"When all the world is old, lad, and all the trees are brown,

And all the sport is stale, lad, and all the wheels run down;

Creep home, and take your place there, the spent

and maimed among,

God grant you find one face there, you loved when all was young."

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

BY JULIA WARD HOWE

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword.

His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never

call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment

seat: