For when the morn came dim and sad Thomas Hood THE SONG OF THE SHIRT With fingers weary and worn, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 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 oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "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 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? O God! that bread should be so dear, A table a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "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 benumb'd, "Work-work-work, And work work — work, When the weather is warm and bright! The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "Oh, but for one short hour! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread- In poverty, hunger, and dirt; She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" THE DAY IS DONE Thomas Hood The day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, |