THE SONG OF A SHIRT.

THOMAS HOOD, died 1846.

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 a 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 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 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!

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!"

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there,

Close by my cot she tells her tale,
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

I charm the fairy-footed hours,

With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave,

For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay,

Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

MELANCHOLY.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Go! you may call it madness, folly;
You shall not chase my gloom away.
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy.

THE TAMBOURINE SONG.

CHARLES MACKAY.

I LOVE my little native isle,

Mine emerald in a golden deep; My garden where the roses smile,

My vineyard where the tendrils creep.

How sweetly glide the summer hours,

When twilight shows her silver sheen ; And youths and maids from all the bowers Come forth to play the Tambourine !

At morn the fisher spreads his sail
Upon our calm encircling sea;

The farmer labours in the vale,

Or tends his vine and orange tree.

But soon as lingering sunset throws

O'er woods and fields a deeper green, And all the west in crimson glows,

They gather to the Tambourine.

We love our merry native song,

Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks,

Our moonlight walks the beach along,
For interchange of words and looks.
When toil is done, and day is spent,

Sweet is the dance with song between ;
The jest for harmless pleasure meant,
And tinkle of the Tambourine.

My native isle, my land of peace-
My father's home, my mother's grave—
May evermore thy joys increase,

And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave!
May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf,
Nor war pollute thy valleys green ;
Nor fail the dance upon thy turf,
Nor music of the Tambourine.

THAT SONG, AGAIN!

THOMAS K. HERVEY.

THAT Song, again! its wailing strain

Brings back the thoughts of other hours,—

The forms I ne'er may see again,—

And brightens all life's faded flowers!

In mournful murmurs, o'er mine ear
Remembered echoes seem to roll,
And sounds I never more can hear,
Make music in my lonely soul!

That swell again !—now full and high,
The tide of feeling flows along,
And many a thought that claims a sigh,
Seems mingling with the magic song!

The forms I loved-and loved in vain,

The hopes I nursed—to see them die,
With fleetness, brightness, through my brain,,
In phantom beauty, wander by!

Then touch the lyre, my own dear love!
My soul is like a troubled sea,

And turns from all below-above,

In fondness, to the harp and thee!

BE STILL, BE STILL, POOR HUMAN HEART.
ELEANORA L. MONTAGU (MRS. T. K. HERVEY).

BE still,-be still, poor human Heart,
What fitful fever shakes thee now?
The Earth's most lovely things depart-
And what art thou?