Seam, and gusset, and band, Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death? "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- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 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- The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs "Oh! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "Oh! but for one short hour! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, 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! THE LADY'S DREAM. THE lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd, At last she startled up, And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there And then in the pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear. The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:"Oh me! that awful dream! E "That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground! And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom;— And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb! "For the pomp and pleasure of Pride, And only to earn a home at last, "And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt "Of the hearts that daily break, |