THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. BY THOMAS HOOD. W ITH 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, O, to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof- and this naked floor A table a broken chair And a wall so blank my shadow I thank Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. |