{"character_count": 2858, "word_count": 515, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9104999899864197], "ccnet_perplexity": [2136.60009765625], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
IL. 1tutnaI Il
'e earnestly sonc to heart II Is not founded on
omt ue eh,soar,rendng fact y 's ~
en pgce for making SHIRT IN M liess' 70 onr general
bst shirts made III so,se OF our aV
5, -.'I,tn ,nas bradford tEnS) Opsei'si'
WrrH fingers weary and worn,


With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomaniy rags


PLYING her needle and thread
Stitch. stitch stitch


In poverty, hunger, and DIRT
And st;ll with voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the Song Of the Shirt!
"Work work work


While the cock is Growing aloof.
And work-work-work,


fill the stars shine through the roof
It's O! to be slave


Along with the barbaIous TURK
Where Woman has never soui 70 save
If this is Christian Work
Work-work-work' u,;;,,.


Fill the brain begins u S"ini'
Work-work-work,


TIL the eyes are heavy and DIM
Seam, and gusset, and band,


Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the bottoms fall asleep,
And sew them on in dream
O. men, with sisters dear.


O, men with mothers and wives
1t is not linen you re wearing OUT
But human creatures lives
-stitcil-stitch,


In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with double thread,
A shroud as well as SHIRT.
But why do talk Of Death!


That phantom of grisly bone,
hardly fear his terrible shape,


1t seems so like my own
1t seems SO like my own,


Because of the fasts keep,
Oh God. that bread should be so dear,
And flesh aud blood so cheap
Work-work-wor


MY labor never flags;
And what are its wages 2 A bed OF straw,
A crust of bread-and rags,
That shatter'd roof-and this naked floor
A tabIe--a broken char
And wall so blank, my shadow | thank
For sometimes falling there.
Work-work-work!


From weary chime to chime,
ork-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 caves


The broodng 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 used to feel,


Before knew the woes of Want,


And the walk that cests meal!
Oh, but for one short hour!


A respite, however brief.
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,


But only time for Grief.
A little weeping would ease my heart,


But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop


flinders needle and thread" I"
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 voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that It's tone could reach the Rich y
She sang this Song OF the Shirt