“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 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!”

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PAUPER’S DRIVE.

There’s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot—­
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings;
  Rattle his bones over the stones! 
  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns!

O, where are the mourners?  Alas! there are none,
He has left not a gap in the world, now he’s gone,—­
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: 
  Rattle his bones over the stones! 
  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns!

What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din! 
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! 
How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurled! 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
  Rattle his bones over the stones! 
  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he’s stretched in a coach! 
He’s taking a drive in his carriage at last! 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: 
  Rattle his bones over the stones! 
  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! 
And be joyful to think, when by death you ’re laid low,
You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!
  Rattle his bones over the stones! 
  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns!