Poems with rhymes of shirt

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

An' 'e yanks a cold roast chicken frum the bosom uv 'is shirt,
An' Rosie finds a ducklin' underneath 'er Sund'y skirt.

I owned a single shirt;
Like canny Scot I bought it black
So's not to show the dirt;

'Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt;
But I fell away with the Corp'ral's stock
and the best of the Corp'ral's shirt.

As Dymock, lest some hurt
Befall you, make no mention of
The man without a shirt.

They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.

On the cuff of his shirt
He had managed to get
What we hoped had been dirt,

A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.

His linen is immaculate. His broad stiff-bosomed shirt
Upheld a three-inch collar; and he was a fearful flirt.

"I struck then! I struck then for vengeance! When I saw him lie dead in the dirt,
And the blood that came oozing like water had darkened the red of his shirt,

We work under escort in trousers and shirt,
An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt,

And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer -- to plaster anew with dirt?
An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt?

With chain of gold his belly's girt,
His beard is barber trim;
Yet bristle-chinned with ragged shirt,

My wounds while I squeal at the hurt.
No more I'll go walking in public,
My heart hanging out of my shirt.

Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt
Belonging to his character and shirt?

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

Though bar a stake of sandalwood you weren't a great deal hurt,
Though the gidya ripped your moleskins, and the mulga rent your shirt.

When I would wash beside a brook my solitary shirt,
And though it dried upon my back I never took a hurt;

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
Until their tushes white
Take good hold in the army shirt,