LESSON 73

SONG OF THE SHIRT

衬衫之歌

Thomas Hood, 1798-1845, the son of a London bookseller, was born in that city. He undertook, after leaving school, to learn the art of an engraver, but soon gave up the business, and turned his attention to literature. His lighter pieces, exhibiting his skill as a wit and punster, soon became well known and popular. In 1821 he became subeditor of the “London Magazine,” and formed the acquaintance of the literary men of the metropolis. The last years of his life were clouded by poverty and ill health. Some of his most humorous pieces were written on a sick bed. Hood is best known as a joker—a writer of “whims and oddities”—but he was no mere joker. Some of his pieces are filled with the tenderest pathos; and a gentle spirit, in love with justice and humanity, pervades even his lighter compositions. His “Song of the Shirt” first appeared in the “London Punch.”

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 is 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!
“O men, with sisters dear!
O 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;
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
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 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
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!
“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
Hinders needle and thread.”
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.”

【中文阅读】

手指酸软渐磨伤，
眼皮沉重血丝浓，
衣不遮体斜身坐，
针线飞舞又穿梭：
一针一针再一针！
饥寒交迫哪堪当，
声音悲呛引吭歌，
却道是《衬衫之歌》！
“干活！干活！再干活！”
公鸡一声待报晓！
干活！干活！再干活！
只待寒星映琼宇！
把身为奴空嗟叹，
土耳其人真野蛮，
要把灵魂来拯救
只有基督方成事！
“干活！干活！再干活！”
脑袋开始嗡嗡响；
干活！干活！再干活！
眼皮沉重视物茫！
缝针上袖绑扎带，
反过来亦是一样，
缝罢扣子入梦乡，
梦里依稀缝纫忙！
姐妹切伴在君侧！
慈母娇妻神亦伤！
衣破不复亚麻样，
恰似人生空悲切！
一针！一针！再一针！
饥寒交迫哪堪当——
切用双线来缝纫，
缝了尸布又缝衫。
吾今絮絮念死亡
狰狞尸骨幽灵现，
吾非仅惮其形骇，
恍若吾与其同形；
恍若吾与其同形，
皆为幽步似如飞；
啊，上帝！
面包何以情堪伤，
血肉两茫茫！
“干活！干活！再干活！”
日夜劳作不停歇，
薪酬何以仅草床，
面包碎屑怎充饥，
衣衫褴褛怎蔽体，
屋漏星稀地板裸，
桌椅残破徒四壁，
对影流落成几何。
“干活！干活！再干活！”
钟儿声声催人急！
干活！干活！再干活！
囚徒忙来为赎罪！
缝针上袖绑扎带，
反过来亦是一样，
直到心碎头麻木，
还有一双疲累手。
“干活！干活！再干活！”
十二月里月光稀，
干活！干活！再干活！
只待天暖月明时；
檐下雨燕忙抱窝，
唧唧喳喳撩心窝，
揶吾不知春几何。
莫负春日花草香，
黄花痴长春更浓！
头上蓝天脚下草，
觉我未觉只一消，
一餐愁苦心自知！
“转瞬稍安何其短！
闲暇怎与爱与望，
仅付时光与悲伤！
饮泣窃窃慰吾心，
涕泪莫与海中花，
滴滴碍吾针线忙。”
手指酸软渐磨伤，
眼皮沉重血丝浓，
衣不遮体斜身坐，
针线飞舞又穿梭：
一针一针再一针！
饥寒交迫哪堪当，
声音悲呛引吭歌，
却道是《衬衫之歌》。