city of Boston, as it ever has been anywhere, at any time, in the
history of human greed.

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 the 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!

* * * * *

Stitch--stitch--stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,--