187 The Song of the Shirt! WITH fingers weary and worn, 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, Along with the barbarous Turk, "Work-work—work, Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam; Till over the buttons I fall asleep, "O! men, with sisters dear! O! men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death? Oh! God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labour 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 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, As if to show me their sunny backs, "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, But in their briny head My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread." |