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, "O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of death? 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 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work work - work! From weary chime to chime, As prisoners work for crime! 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 - The brooding swallows cling, "O! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, "O! 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, Stitch stitch! stitch! And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tone could reach the rich! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" THE LADY'S DREAM. THE lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; From side to side, she muttered and moaned, And tossed her arms aloft. And then in the pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear. The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broidered quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried: "O, me! that awful dream! "That weary, weary walk, In the church-yard's dismal ground! And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round, Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound! "And, O! those maidens young, And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, "For the pomp and pleasure of pride, We toil like Afric slaves, And only to earn a home, at last, Where yonder cypress waves; And then they pointed — I never saw "And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt "Of the hearts that daily break, "For the blind and the cripple were there, - The naked, alas! that I might have clad, The famished I might have fed! |