--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Thomas Hood collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 5 number: 1 published: 1901-11 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Thomas Hood, "The Song of the Shirt," *Improvement Era* 5, no. 1 (November 1901): 18–19.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0501unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera0501unse start_page: 18 end_page: 19 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1901-11) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0501unse publication_year: 1901 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1901, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Song of the Shirt 18 IMPROVEMENT ERA. to live in Twickenham, where he died in 1744. He was deformed and sickly from childhood, which made his temper irritable and fretful, but he had a tender heart for his friends. Gay, Swift, Arbuthnot, Boling- broke, and other famous men, were his intimate friends. It was Warbur- ton who said of him, "He is as good a companion as a poet, and, what is more, appears to be as good a man."] Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. Hark! they whisper; angels say, "Sister spirit, come away." What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! Grave! where is thy victory? Death! where is thy sting? THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. BY THOMAS HOOD. [Thomas Hood was born in London, May, 1799, and died in May, 1845. His complete works appeared in 1862. There is a monument in Kensal Green Cemetery, erected to his memory by public subscription. Missionaries who have been in Europe will recognize the condition por- trayed in the poem which is here presented. It should be a matter of thankfulness on the part of the children of Zion, with all the troubles — — — PRELIMINARY PROGRAM SELECTIONS. 19 that we think we have, that such pictures are not natural to our glori- ous mountain home.] With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread Stitch — stitch —stitch— poverty, hunger, and in 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 0! 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! "0! men with sisters dear! 0! men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, but humaji creatures' lives! Stitch — stitch — stitch, in poverty, hunger aud 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; 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 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.