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Song Of The ShirtAdded on:4/29/2008 | In FunnyWith 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 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 Oh! 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 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! 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, I hardly fear its terrible shape, It seems so like my own It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!
"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 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 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 And twit me with the spring.
Oh! 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!
Oh! 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!" Recently Added- To A Friend
I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs! In Friendship - 25 days ago - The Eagle, The Sow, And The Cat
THE Queen of Birds, t'encrease the Regal Stock, Had hatch'd her young Ones in a stately Oak, Whose Middle-part was by a Cat possest, And near the Root with Litter warmly drest, A teeming Sow had made her peaceful Nest. (Thus Palaces are cramm'd from Roof to Ground, And Animals, as various, in them found.) When to the Sow, who no Misfortune fear'd, Puss with her fawning Compliments appear'd, Rejoicing much at her Deliv'ry past, And that she 'scap'd so well, who bred so fast. Then every little Piglin she commends, And likens them to all their swinish Friends; Bestows good Wishes, but with Sighs implies, That some dark Fears do in her Bosom rise. Such Tempting Flesh, she cries, will Eagles spare? Methinks, good Neighbour, you should live in Care: Since I, who bring not forth such dainty Bits, Tremble for my unpalatable Chits; And had I but foreseen, the Eagle's Bed Was in this fatal Tree to have been spread; I sooner wou'd have kitten'd in the Road, Than made this Place of Danger my abode. I heard her young Ones lately cry for Pig, And pity'd you, that were so near, and big. In Friendship this I secretly reveal, Lest Pettitoes shou'd make th' ensuing Meal; Or else, perhaps, Yourself may be their aim, For a Sow's Paps has been a Dish of Fame. No more the sad, affrighted Mother hears, But overturning all with boist'rous Fears, She from her helpless Young in haste departs, Whilst Puss ascends, to practice farther Arts. The Anti-chamber pass'd, she scratch'd the Door; The Eagle, ne'er alarum'd so before, Bids her come in, and look the Cause be great, That makes her thus disturb the Royal Seat; Nor think, of Mice and Rats some pest'ring Tale Shall, in excuse of Insolence, prevail. Alas! my Gracious Lady, quoth the Cat, I think not of such Vermin; Mouse, or Rat To me are tasteless grown; nor dare I stir To use my Phangs, or to expose my Fur. A Foe intestine threatens all around, And ev'n this lofty Structure will confound; A Pestilential Sow, a meazel'd Pork On the Foundation has been long at work, Help'd by a Rabble, issu'd from her Womb, Which she has foster'd in that lower Room; Who now for Acorns are so madly bent, That soon this Tree must fall, for their Content. I wou'd have fetch'd some for th' unruly Elves; But 'tis the Mob's delight to help Themselves: Whilst your high Brood must with the meanest drop, And steeper be their Fall, as next the Top; Unless you soon to Jupiter repair, And let him know, the Case demands his Care.
Oh! May the Trunk but stand, 'till you come back! But hark! already sure, I hear it crack. Away, away---The Eagle, all agast, Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haste: Whilst crafty Puss, now o'er the Eyry reigns, Replenishing her Maw with treach'rous Gains. The Sow she plunders next, and lives alone; The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the House her own.
Curs'd Sycophants! How wretched is the Fate Of those, who know you not, till 'tis too late! In Friendship - 25 days ago
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