The Song of the Shirt
The Song of the Shirt
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 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!"
poem by Thomas Hood
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Related quotes
A Pocket Handkerchief To Hem
A pocket handkerchief to hem -
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
How many stitches it will take
Before it's done, I fear.
Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
And stitch and stitch away,
Till stitch by stitch the hem is done -
And after work is play!
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stiches
Sew me back together
Make every stitch clean
Pull the thread tighter
I'm ripping from the seams
Come quickly whoever you are
And stitch back together my heart
poem by Sydney Bell
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Stitches
Sew me back together
Make every stitch clean
Pull the thread tighter
I'm ripping from the seams
Come quickly whoever you are
And stitch back together my heart
poem by Zara Youtz
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Fading Tunes
i keep singing the same song
for the low pitch but the tune so long
i cling on to the whirling wind
never mind life at it's own speed
After all;
History buries no heroes
Age admits no zeroes
the dead are only weighty kilos
Nevertheless...
our time always comes
surely our prides always hurls
yet our wickedness ever curls
After all, We are just human
Every man with a half rib for a woman
a stitch by stitch is a full human
flesh for immortal soul makes us strong
poem by Timothy muggaga
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A Stitch In Time
I work in dark factories --- a cog in the big wheel
Driving grey satanic mills and weaving sad stories.
And faceless masters --- oh, they pay me plenty ---
Crumbs from their luncheon packs, harsh wine from
Bottles halk empty.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Said cock robin from the wall.
Its an early bird catches the worm.
Show a little pride before you fall.
So I flew to the south sun with birds of a feather
To drink in the warm nights and tell of fine weather.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Listen all you young folk --- your lives on a timetable
Clocking on twenty-one --- fly while youre able.
A stitch in time saves nine.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Needle
Me, the needle
can you ignore being little.
Knives can cut and apart,
I can stitch to make a part.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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The stitch is lost unless the thread is knotted.
The stitch is lost unless the thread be knotted.
Who doesn't make a knot at the end of the thread, loses the stitch more than once.
Switch
When dawn snuffs out sleep's candlelight
one's memory retains as bright
far fog framed phantom image which
imprints its background stitch by stitch
upon the mind – dream drawn despite
the evidence that day and night
defy comparison. The switch
from focus when the rest is pitch
to depth of vision often might
seem trite when gift of second sight
ungranted is or atrophies.
Soul inner cecity defies,
“necessity” denies. Heart seeks
beyond the ken of highest peaks.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Gnat Nebulae
Full pummelling fisticuffs
Stitch over stitch
In and out
Imperceptibly kaleidoscopic
Swirling from ear to ear
Sporadic
Thrumming mystical notes
Notes of whisper
Whisper in the ear
Now a bothered swish of clawing
Cleaving slipping fingers
Immalleable rolling universal ball
Microcosmic needle into
Macrocosmic wool all
Silently thudding kneading pulling
Sealing a sin all opened unforgiven
Eternally whispering to a few
And never really heard
Pummelling sewing the invisible centre
Round and round the darkless sun
Only the end that began
Only a scratch and a bother
What bother to scratch
For scratching bothers
Bothers a scratch
Scratch and not to bother
Scratch Scratch Scratch
Dedicated to J.C. Alldridge
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Lottery Ticket
'A ticket for the lottery
I've purchased every week,' said she
'For years a score
Though desperately poor am I,
Oh how I've scrimped and scraped to buy
One chance more.
Each week I think I'll gain the prize,
And end my sorrows and my sighs,
For I'll be rich;
Then nevermore I'll eat bread dry,
With icy hands to cry and cry
And stitch and stitch.'
'Tis true she won the premier prize;
It was of formidable size,
Ten million francs.
I know, because the man who sold
It to her splenically told
He got no thanks.
The lucky one was never found,
For she was snugly underground,
And minus breath;
And with that ticket tucked away,
In some old stocking, so they say,
She starved to death.
poem by Robert William Service
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Guess the Title - Patter down Pat
..........................PATTERNS
....... ................which.......stitch
....... .........PATTERNS....PATTERNS
............ ...fit....................................into
...........PATTERNS....................PATTE RNS
.........knit......................... .........................onto
....PATTERNS ..........................................PATTERN S
enrich.................................. ...................................which
. ...PATTERNS...................................... ....PATTERNS
.........knit................ ..................................onto
... ........PATTERNS....................PATTERNS
...............fit............................ ........into
................PATTERNS....P ATTERNS
.......................which...... .stitch
..........................PATTERNS
10 August 1995
robi03_0762_robi03_0000 QXX_MXX
[C] Jonathan Robin written
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Don't put up my Thread and Needle
617
Don't put up my Thread and Needle—
I'll begin to Sew
When the Birds begin to whistle—
Better Stitches—so—
These were bent—my sight got crooked—
When my mind—is plain
I'll do seams—a Queen's endeavor
Would not blush to own—
Hems—too fine for Lady's tracing
To the sightless Knot—
Tucks—of dainty interspersion—
Like a dotted Dot—
Leave my Needle in the furrow—
Where I put it down—
I can make the zigzag stitches
Straight—when I am strong—
Till then—dreaming I am sewing
Fetch the seam I missed—
Closer—so I—at my sleeping—
Still surmise I stitch—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Uncommon Sense
If there is no beginning how may end
advance as foe, be welcome found as friend -
for if the wheel turns all's spun pattern which
must weave itself through every thread and stitch,
Thus if there is no wheel what cares can mend
cares' mirage cares, last bend loops round next bend.
Ensure what's done is fun, spent full and rich,
as for regrets: there is no tent to pitch...
18 April 2005 retitled with minor changes 2 May 2008 -
robi03_1231_robi03_0000 XXX_ZXX
for previous version see below
If there is no beginning how can end
advance as foe, be welcome found as friend -
for if the wheel turns all's spun pattern which
must weave itself through every thread and stitch,
Thus if there is no wheel what cares can mend
the cares of cares - there's only one last bend!
Ensure what's done is fun, spent full and rich,
as for regrets no tent is there to pitch!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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When Happiness Prevailed
I used the needle in and out
and fashioned a fancy frock.
I listened to you read to me
and hated the tick of the clock.
For time with you was sweet but small
and never could it last.
Your hand on mine was all I had
and then the die was cast.
I continued to cross stitch after you.
I recited your words as I walked the moor,
the only comfort that I could find
to fill my mind like you did before.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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