 | Famine |  |
Trade
I am who giveth to the labourer food!—
Without me were not work, nor life, nor good.
Who marshaleth the labourers' force but I?
Who sets their tasks? What other can supply
Their daily bread when the mill-race is dry
And Blight and War and Locusts hover nigh?
My capital, well saved and well employ'd,
Maintains the poor fool Labour, else destroy'd
By reckless ignorance and folly. Why
Am I, the poor man's help, his bounteous lord,
Who give much more than I can well afford,
Class'd thus with these Abhorr'd?
What have I done?
Are not my hands clean? and the smell of gold
Is it not pleasant? And my hair is white
With wintry years. For I am very old,
And little hath this world for my delight.
I am who giveth to the labourer food!—
Without me were not work, nor life, nor good.
Who marshaleth the labourers' force but I?
Who sets their tasks? What other can supply
Their daily bread when the mill-race is dry
And Blight and War and Locusts hover nigh?
My capital, well saved and well employ'd,
Maintains the poor fool Labour, else destroy'd
By reckless ignorance and folly. Why
Am I, the poor man's help, his bounteous lord,
Who give much more than I can well afford,
Class'd thus with these Abhorr'd?
What have I done?
Are not my hands clean? and the smell of gold
Is it not pleasant? And my hair is white
With wintry years. For I am very old,
And little hath this world for my delight.
| Famine | |