WITH fingers weary and worn, 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! 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! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives! But human creatures' lives! 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 shatter'd roof-and this naked floorA 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, 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, 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! 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, |