Ye Olde Swan Inn

From Dittopedia

The Swan Inn ** (R)

The Swan Hotel was originally built as a row of cottages, with the alehouse occupying the eastern-most cottage. It has been an inn since the 13th century, but the building has been much altered since then. Coal barges would discharge their cargo here. It was also a favourite hostelry for anglers and other river folk. Tradition has it that Thomas Hood composed the Song of the Shirt while staying here. At the side of the Swan is one one of the few slipways to the Thames at the point where there was a ford across the river in Tudor times. Ducks congregate here to be fed, so bring along some bread.

The Swan Inn is said to have been visited often by Thomas Hood (1799-1845). The well-known Song of the Shirt may have been written there:

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,* (* A reflection of Hood's conception of Islam)

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, (* cloth inserted to strengthen or widen a garment)

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 its 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 shattered roof--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 blessd 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!"

(First published in Punch, or the London Charivari, 16 December 1843.)

Source

• Inglis, R. 1952. Adventures in English Literature Toronto: W. J. Gage, pp. 436-37.

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