THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 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! "Work, work, work, Till the brain begins to swin! 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! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, "But why do I talk of Death, That phantom of grisly bone? THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. I hardly fear his terrible shape, Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, "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- and this naked floor, 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 benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "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, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. As if to show me their sunny backs, "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, "O! 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, 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!" THOMAS HOOD. ELEGY. SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed, My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake, Till age, or grief, or sickness, must It so much loves, and fill the room And follow thee with all the speed Of life, almost by eight houres saile, Than when sleep breathed his drowsie gale. Thus from the sun my bottom steares, And my dayes compass downward bears; Nor labor I to stemme the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide. THE DEATH-BED. 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Thou, like the vanne, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory, In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The crime: I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. Dr. HENRY KING. THE DEATH-BED. WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers |