282 



The Song of the Shirt. 



Vol. VIII. 



The Song of the Shirt. 



It is well known to our readers that much has been 

 said and written, respecting the low prices at which, 

 in many instances, the services of the needle are ob- 

 tainedC Women who are housekeepers, without hus- 

 bands, or with such as unhappily are worse than none, 

 and families of young children to provide for, natu- 

 rally, and perhaps almost necessarily, have recourse 

 to the needle. The price for making a shirt or vest in 

 our large cities, where, it is easy to perceive, there 

 will always be a redundancy of this kind of labour, 

 can scarcely be said to be a living price. We all re- 

 member how long and zealously our late fellow towns- 

 man, Matliew Carey, interested himself in endeavour- 

 ing to improve the condition of our seamstresses, by 

 urging before the public, the unreasonableness of 

 forcing upon a helpless part of the community— and a 

 part too, which is certainly entitled to many of our 

 sympathies,— a scale of prices which we cannot fail 

 to perceive, are barely adequate to the keeping to- 

 gether of flesh and spirit. 



The evil is by no means confined to our cities; nor 

 do we feel it here in its most aggravated forms. In 

 London and in Paris, particularly, we are advised that 

 cases of the most distressing character are continually 

 occurring among those of the class mentioned above. 

 Torpawn the goods entrusted to them to work up 

 from the very goatlings of a destitution which deprives 

 them of bread, is said to be no uncommon occurrence. 

 The hectic flush and the skeleton frame, are but too 

 commonly the melancholy attendants of the close con- 

 finement and unremitting duties of an occupation, 

 whose meagre rewards will not suffer the lu.xury even 

 of tears, lest their indulgence should "hinder needle 

 and thread!" 



We take the following lines from a late number of 

 Campbi'll's Magazine. The language is strong, and 

 calculated to stir up our sympathies; and though there 

 is doubtless too much of soberness and truth in it, yet 

 we apprehend the poet's license of high colouring, has 



not been entirely unused.^En. 



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! 



Seam, and gusset, and band, 

 Band, and gusset, and seam, 



'Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

 And sew them on in a dream ! 



" 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 grizzly bone? 

 I Iiardly fear his terrible shape, 



It seems so like my own — 



It seems so like ray 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 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 undermjath 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 weepi7ig would ease my heart. 



But in their briny bed. 

 My tears must stop, for every drop 



Hinders needle and thread !" 



