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!
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?

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

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!

"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
For sometimes falling there!

"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,
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!"

THOMAS HOOD.

ELEGY.

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake,

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow vale;
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee;
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

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
A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution

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
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.