120.-The Song of the Shirt.

The "Song of the Shirt" (first published in London "Punch" in 1844) was written by Thomas Hood, in order to show the sorrows and sufferings of the poor needlewomen of London. It is a cry from the depths of the human heart, and profoundly stirred public sympathy for the class referred to.

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,
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 swim;
Work! work! work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim.

"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?
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,

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 blesséd 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!"

121.-The Baron's Last Banquet.

This spirited ballad, which makes a very effective declamation, is by A. G. Greene (1802–68), a native of Providence, R.I.

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay, The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been

bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had

spent.

They come around me here, and say my days of life

are o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band

no more:

They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now

that I,

Their own liege lord and master born, that I — Ha, ha! - must die.