 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE CURSE OF NO LABOUR.
1
It is not that we are idle,It is not that we are proud,
If we slouch along or sidle
In the silence or the crowd,
With our pallid cheeks and hollow,
And the shuffling shambling tread
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Other victims to the dead.
It is not that we are shamming,
Or would shirk the toiler's fate;
That we like the dreary slamming
Of the hateful workhouse gate,
With the pauper's brand and pittance,
And the patronising sneer,
Which bestows a grudged admittance
To the welcome without cheer;
If we creep with heavy paces,
Up and down the heartless street,
With a trouble on our faces
And a trembling in our feet.
And we beg not for your money.
Though we scorn not what you give,
We have heaped up for you honey,
And we only ask to live.
2
It is not the curse of labour,Which we suffer day and night;
As we see each man his neighbour,
Sinking deeper in his plight.
For these hands are scarred with toiling,
And these brows are seamed and worn
By the burden of the broiling,
Which we long have gaily borne;
With the dim and dying ember,
And the scarcely broken fast,
To the fogs of dark December
Right from January's blast.
It is not that we are thriftless,
Or were skulking sots and knaves,
When we shabby go and shiftless
On the road beset with graves—
When our wives are bowed with weeping,
And lie smitten in the dust,
And the children pine for sleeping,
From the lacking of a crust.
I'ts the curse of no employment,
Which we sorely feel and dread;
And we crave not for enjoyment,
But for daily work and bread.
3
It is not that food is dearer,Which our arms have helped to reap;
For though want was never nearer,
The food never was more cheap.
But we may not ply our calling,
And we must not use our skill;
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We are falling lower still.
And why mock us with the plenty,
Which we have no power to get—
Not a single man in twenty—
And with labour cheaper yet?
It is not that gold is failing,
For the coffers are too full;
But they do not aid our ailing,
Though the little fingers pull.
And the Trade (in Freedom's title!)
Has forsaken us and flown
To strange lands, without requital,
Which are careful of their own;
While we miss the means which nourish,
And the strivings mourn which stay,
Just that foreign hearths may flourish
And a Party have its day.
4
It is not that we would hankerFor the goods of richer men;
We despise the social canker,
Of the poisoned speech and pen.
But we weary and we sorrow,
For the wounds we cannot heal;
And if blacker were the morrow,
We would rather die than steal.
Though we stagger on and stumble,
And our loved ones fade and fall,
And we may be poor and humble,
We are honest before all.
From our dwellings we are driven,
By the bitter cry of need;
For the darlings, who were given
Unto us, we may not feed.
And we dare not watch them perish,
As the helpless never should,
When we swore and meant to cherish,
And would labour if we could.
We are loyal lowly brothers,
And the feast is grandly spread
In the happy homes of others,
While we starve for work and bread.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |