THE SONG OF THE SOCK

Vanity Fair, November 2, 1861

THE SONG OF THE SOCK

Respectfully dedicated to the fore-woman or “Hose Company, No. 1”

By a Blue Stocking Maker

I

With fingers flying fast,

With voices merry and light,

“The Club” are sitting in easy chairs,

Plying their needles bright,--

Knit ! knit ! knit !

As forward and back they rock,

And ever, as at work they sit,

They sing the “Song of the Sock !”—

II

Work ! work ! work !

In the sunny afternoon !

And work, work, work,

By the silver light of the moon !

It’s oh ! to be a slave

And work with right good will

While we have yet a country to save,

And brothers to go and—drill!

III

Work, work, work !

Our labor never flags,

Till our soldiers down in Dixie,

 Burn all session rags;

Till the sacred tomb of Washington

Which woman’s labor won,

Shall be free to every pilgrim,--

Rebought with sword and gun.

IV

Work, work, work,

‘Twill help to “roll the ball.”

Work, work, work,

Till the evening shadows fall !

Seam, and middle, and heel,

Heel, and middle, and seam,

Till the welcome sound of the supper-bell,

Startles us, as from a dream.

V

Work, work, work !

With sympathies all alive;

Work, work, work,

Till the gentlemen arrive;

And then for a few short hours,

To listen, and laugh, and talk,

And hold the yarn, or wind,--

Then start for a homeward walk,

VI

With fingers flying fast,

With voices merry and light,

“The Club” are sitting in easy chairs,

Plying their needles bright,

Knit ! knit ! knit !

As forward and back they rock,

And ever, as at work they sit,

In this spasmodic, industrious fit,

They sing the “Song of the Sock !”