Declamation Piece “Am I to be Blamed?

They’re chasing me, they’re chasing, no they must not catch me, I have enough money now, yes enough for my starving mother and
brothers.

Please let me go, let me go home before you imprisoned me. Very well, officers? take me to your headquarters. Good morning
captain! no captain, you are mistaken, I was once a good girl, just like the rest of you here. Just like any of your daughters. But time
was, when I was reared in slums. But we lived honestly, we lived honestly in life. My, father, mother, brothers, sisters and I. But
then, poverty enters the portals of our home. My father became jobless, my mother got ill. The small savings that my mother had
kept for our expenses were spent. All for our daily needs and her needed medicine.

One night, my father went out, telling us that he would come back in a few minutes with plenty of foods and money, but that was the
last time I saw him. He went with another woman. If only I could lay my hands on his neck I would wring it without pain until he
breaths no more. If you were in my place, you’ll do it, won’t you Captain? What? you won’t still believe in me?. Come and I’ll show
you a dilapidated shanty by a railroad.

Mother, mother I’m home, mother? mother?!. There Captain, see my dead mother. Captain? there are tears in your eyes? now pack
this stolen money and return it to the owner. What good would this do to my mother now? she’s already gone! Do you hear me?
she’s already gone. Am I to be blamed for the things I have done?

Declamation Piece “The Rich Man and the Poor Man”

Food and money I give to you,

Why do you shout so mercily
When I give you your part?”
queried the rich man.

The poor man replied:

“Your question you cannot answer
For from pain and agony you are free,
But I have suffered and borne
The situation that I don’t like to be in.”

“That I couldn’t understand

Because Life for me is easy;
I take this and take that,
And life is just what I want it to be.”
consented the rich man.

“Comfort your mind, rich man,

with realities of death.
Your wealth I do not envy
For you can not buy
eternity with money.
If to live happily
is to live in hypocrisy,
Then I prefer to be silly
so I would be holy.
Life you love so much you will lose
And only then will you understand
What agony is,” the poor man shouted.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! You say so
For you desire this place of mine.
Indulgence you have clouded with reason
But I understand because of your situation.”
boastfully the rich man said.

Outraged the poor man answered:

“How pitiful the person blinded with pleasure;
No, you don’t care of our journey
That you have created through your greediness.
Come now, man of weak soul!
Your days are numbered for you to face
The Man of Love.
You may not cry now but later you will
When the chilling reality of the last judgment
Comes across your way;
Yes, then you will pity, but not for me.
Not for anybody else.
But for yourself only!
Yes, eat, drink, and be merry.
For tomorrow you shall die!

Declamation Piece “The Face Upon the Floor”

‘Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there, 

Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square; 
And as songs and witty stories Came through the open door, 
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in." 
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, or rum or gin?" 
"Here, Toby, sic ‘em, if your stomach’s equal to the work– 
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace; 
In fact, he smiled as tho’ he thought he’d struck the proper place. 
"Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd– 
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink–that’s what I want… I’m out of funds, you know, 

When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow. 
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou; 
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely, God bless you one and all; 
Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call. 
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past; 
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

"I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. 

Say! Give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do… 
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think; 
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame– 
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame; 
Five fingers… there, that’s the scheme… and corking whiskey, too. 
Well, here’s luck, boys and landlord… my best regards to you.

"You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you true 
How I came to be the dirty sot, you see before you now. 
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health, 
And but for a blunder ought to have made, considerable wealth.

"I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood, 
But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good. 
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise, 
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the ‘Chase of Fame’. 
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name, 
And then I met a woman… now comes the funny part– 
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.

"Why don’t you laugh? ’tis funny that the vagabond you see 
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me; 
But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, 
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give, 
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

Declamation Piece “The Song of the Shirt”

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, 
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!

"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 shatter’d 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 benumb’d, 
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!"

Short Declamation Piece: The Torch of Life

There’s a breathless hush in the close tonight: 

Ten to make and the match to win – 
A bumping pitch and a blinding light, 
An hour to play and the last man in. 
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat, 
Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame, 
But his captain’s hand on his shoulder smote: 
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”

The sand of the desert is sodden red, 

Red with the wreck of a square that broke; 
The gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead, 
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. 
The river of death has brimmed his banks, 
And England’s far, and Honor a name, 
But the voice of a Schoolboy rallies the ranks: 
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”

This is the word that year by year, 

While in her place the school is set, 
Every one of her sons must hear, 
And none that hears it dare forget. 
This they all with a joyful mind. 
Bear through life like a torch in flame, 
And falling fling to the host behind: 
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”