You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say, Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now are you? And how poor are they? "Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red; But what there is left of it's mousey, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there! I must go. Sister's coming. But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee." The Song of the Shirt. ITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 1 "Work-work-work! While the cock is crowing aloof; And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof; Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,— "Work-work-work! Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh! men with Sisters dear! Oh! men with Mothers and Wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death! It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; O 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 "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime, 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. "Oh! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, "Oh! but for one short hour, A respite, however brief! 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!" ROBERT BURNS. ROBERT BURNS, the great lyric poet of Scotland, was born January 25, 1759, in a small cottage near Ayr; and, broken in health, he died July 21, 1796. Burns' parents were poor, but they possessed excellent qualities of head and heart, and did all in their power to educate their children. By habits of industry and study, Burns acquired a large fund of information. While a plow-boy, at the age of sixteen, he commenced composing verses in the Scottish dialect. These verses attracted much attention, and helped to widen the circle of his acquaintance. Among the poems which his first volume contained, were the following: The Twa Dogs, The Author's Prayer, Address to the Deil, The Vision, The Dream, Halloween, Cotter's Saturday Night, To a Mouse, To a Daisy, Man Was Made to Mourn. This volume fully established the author's fame, and constituted the turning-point in his life. "The people murmured of him from sea to sea." He was at once invited to Edinburgh, where he was "welcomed. among the scholars of the northern capital and its university," and brought into the literary circles of the age. |