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With fingers weary and worn, with eye-lids 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, 'til the stars shine through the roof. It is oh! to be a slave, along with the barbarous Turk, When woman has never a soul to save, if this be Christian work. Work, work, work, 'til 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, 'Til 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 creature's 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 it's 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 labor never flags, And what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread and rags. That shatter'd roof, and 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, 'Til 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. 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 being led, My tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread. With fingers weary and worn, with eye-lids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread. Stitch, stitch, stitch, in poverty, hunger and dirt, Oh! that its tone could reach the rich, She sang this "song of the shirt." |
Hutchinson Family. "The Song of the Shirt." Music: Hutchinson Family. Lyrics: Thomas Hood. First line: "With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red." New York: Ch. Holt., Jr. 1847.
- Score may be found at "The Lester S. Levy Collection of Sheet Music," levysheetmusic.mse.jhu.edu.
- For depth of feeling and true pathos nothing could exceed the
"Song of the shirt," which was sung by the four voices. The
first two lines, "With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy
and red," instantly conjured up the awful picture that poor
Thomas Hood wished to present to his readers; the woman who sat
in "unwomanly rags" was present with the audience, singing her
mournful "stitch, stitch, stitch," in tones that must have
vibrated to the hearts of most present. The line, "And still
with a voice of dolorous pitch," was given with thrilling effect.
-- Manchester Guardian, December 3, 1845
- Several Hutchinson Family songs were of particular interest to participants in the 19th-century labor movement. "The Song of the Shirt" is an important example. "The Popular Creed" and "There Must Be Something Wrong" are a couple others.
![[earliest Hutchinson Family publicity likeness]](http://www.oocities.org/unclesamsfarm/quartet342.jpg)
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