A dozen ballads for the times about White Slavery By the Author of "Proverbial Philosophy" [i.e. M. F. Tupper] |
 | BALLADS ABOUT WHITE SLAVERY. |
 | A dozen ballads for the times about White Slavery |  |
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BALLADS ABOUT WHITE SLAVERY.
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I. THE FIELD SERF.
Galloping out on a drizzly day
To see the foxhounds meet
And huntsmen take their reckless way
Over the newsown wheat,
I came to an old man, stricken and grey,
In soak'd and tattered smock,
Hoeing the turnips out of the clay
For farmer Close's flock.
To see the foxhounds meet
And huntsmen take their reckless way
Over the newsown wheat,
I came to an old man, stricken and grey,
In soak'd and tattered smock,
Hoeing the turnips out of the clay
For farmer Close's flock.
And I pull'd up straight, to talk with the man,
For it is but a prudent part
To show poor folks whenever we can
Their betters are blest with a heart:
The steward may oppress, and the farmer may grind,
And Squire gets all the scorn,—
But the natural bent of a gentleman's mind
Is ever to help the forlorn.
For it is but a prudent part
To show poor folks whenever we can
Their betters are blest with a heart:
The steward may oppress, and the farmer may grind,
And Squire gets all the scorn,—
But the natural bent of a gentleman's mind
Is ever to help the forlorn.
And how the poor fellow's weatherworn cheek
Ran down with gratitude there,
To hear the voice of kindliness speak,
And touch the shilling rare;
And yet—he had given to me much more
Than I to him could have given,
For his story touch'd my heart to its core,
And I heard the praise of Heaven!
Ran down with gratitude there,
To hear the voice of kindliness speak,
And touch the shilling rare;
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Than I to him could have given,
For his story touch'd my heart to its core,
And I heard the praise of Heaven!
For years threescore, or five or six more,—
He didn't know right well,—
How he had toiled, and muck'd and moil'd,
He couldn't justly tell;—
He only remember'd that, young or old,
He had ever been, so to speak,
In midsummer heat or Christmas cold,
Half starved, aweary, and weak!
He didn't know right well,—
How he had toiled, and muck'd and moil'd,
He couldn't justly tell;—
He only remember'd that, young or old,
He had ever been, so to speak,
In midsummer heat or Christmas cold,
Half starved, aweary, and weak!
As a ragged urchin scaring the birds
With lungs all sore and hoarse,
As a farm-lad tending the pigs and herds,
And feeding on food as coarse,—
As a labourer, earning never enough
For bairns, and self, and wife,—
And ever with plenty of bitter and rough,
But none of the honey of life!
With lungs all sore and hoarse,
As a farm-lad tending the pigs and herds,
And feeding on food as coarse,—
As a labourer, earning never enough
For bairns, and self, and wife,—
And ever with plenty of bitter and rough,
But none of the honey of life!
No books, no rest, no pleasures, no treats,
But aches, and labour, and care,
No earthly excitements, nor heavenly sweets,
But ignorance bald and bare,
In the same dull fields from cradle to grave
To spend life's dismal span,—
Why,—this is to live as a Cuban slave,
And not as an English Man!
But aches, and labour, and care,
No earthly excitements, nor heavenly sweets,
But ignorance bald and bare,
In the same dull fields from cradle to grave
To spend life's dismal span,—
Why,—this is to live as a Cuban slave,
And not as an English Man!
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II. THE FACTORY SLAVE.
Pale, and shabby, and looking so ill,
Hungry and cold and wet,
On a winter's morning going to mill
The factory-child I met:
Hungry and cold and wet,
On a winter's morning going to mill
The factory-child I met:
All the day long among perilous wheels,
His duty it was to tend
Spindles and jennies and shuttles and reels,
A toil without an end,
For iron never grows weary, nor feels,
Nor ever made child its friend!
His duty it was to tend
Spindles and jennies and shuttles and reels,
A toil without an end,
For iron never grows weary, nor feels,
Nor ever made child its friend!
One among hundreds was that boy
Who never had known of a home nor a toy,
But work'd without hope, and liv'd without joy!
Who never had known of a home nor a toy,
But work'd without hope, and liv'd without joy!
Stunted, sorrowful, looking so old,
Blear-eyed, weary and wan,
Though thrice ten years had barely been told,
I came to the factory-man:
Blear-eyed, weary and wan,
Though thrice ten years had barely been told,
I came to the factory-man:
All life long in a poisonous air,
Blighting to body and mind,
Where health soon turns to be stagnant there,
And piety deaf and blind,
His lot was a loom and a ricketty chair,
And cotton to weave and wind!
One among thousands all alike
His only excitements were Drink and the Strike,
To think of the torch and to dream of the pike!
Blighting to body and mind,
Where health soon turns to be stagnant there,
And piety deaf and blind,
His lot was a loom and a ricketty chair,
And cotton to weave and wind!
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His only excitements were Drink and the Strike,
To think of the torch and to dream of the pike!
Faded, slatternly, looking so weak,
Tho' once a Scotch lassie so braw,
—With sin in her eye, and disease on her cheek,
The factory-girl I saw:
Tho' once a Scotch lassie so braw,
—With sin in her eye, and disease on her cheek,
The factory-girl I saw:
That close dim room was her home for years
With all things vile to endure,
Irksome labour, and quarrels, and jeers,
And words and deeds impure,
And so till Death,—amid sorrows and fears,
And all without a cure!
With all things vile to endure,
Irksome labour, and quarrels, and jeers,
And words and deeds impure,
And so till Death,—amid sorrows and fears,
And all without a cure!
One of a multitude was that girl
Slaving amid the machinery's whirl,
Bold, and beggar'd of modesty's pearl!
Slaving amid the machinery's whirl,
Bold, and beggar'd of modesty's pearl!
O but how base and shameful a thing
Is this, ye getters of wealth,—
That your prosperities Ruin should bring
On happiness, virtue, and health!
Is this, ye getters of wealth,—
That your prosperities Ruin should bring
On happiness, virtue, and health!
Consider the Mind, remember the Soul,
Of these poor Bodies take care;
If Providence over them gives you control,
As stewards to be judged, beware!
And you, good men,—ay, good on the whole,
No Strikes!—let all be fair.
Of these poor Bodies take care;
If Providence over them gives you control,
As stewards to be judged, beware!
And you, good men,—ay, good on the whole,
No Strikes!—let all be fair.
Thus, on a just anti-slavery plan
Let each do well, as well as he can,
And all will go better with Master and Man!
Let each do well, as well as he can,
And all will go better with Master and Man!
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III. THE QUILL, AND THE COUNTER
When, O when, shall the life of a Man
Be worth a Man's while to live?
When, to this old White-Slavery plan
Its death shall Liberty give?
For, Life was lent to each of us here
For more than a living to earn,
For duties to bless, and affections to cheer,
And plenty to teach, and to learn.
Be worth a Man's while to live?
When, to this old White-Slavery plan
Its death shall Liberty give?
For, Life was lent to each of us here
For more than a living to earn,
For duties to bless, and affections to cheer,
And plenty to teach, and to learn.
But how can yon pale copying clerk,
Screw'd down to a desk and a stool
Twelve hours per diem at quill-driving work,
Go ever to God's own school?
No rest, no leisure, no changes in life,
But one dull same routine,
The pounce and the parchment, the pen and the knife,
And—Man as a mere machine!
Screw'd down to a desk and a stool
Twelve hours per diem at quill-driving work,
Go ever to God's own school?
No rest, no leisure, no changes in life,
But one dull same routine,
The pounce and the parchment, the pen and the knife,
And—Man as a mere machine!
Then,—as to that faint feverish youth
So early and late in the shop,
Whose mileage of walk by the counter in truth
Has rendered him ready to drop,
Painfully smiling, and puffing his wares,
And tricking the customer well,
How sad is his life, and how badly he fares
Let too many thousands tell!
So early and late in the shop,
Whose mileage of walk by the counter in truth
Has rendered him ready to drop,
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And tricking the customer well,
How sad is his life, and how badly he fares
Let too many thousands tell!
O tyrannous Fashion, these victims are thine,
O Vanity, thine are these souls,
O merciless Trade, at thy bidding they pine,
And misery over them rolls!
Grant them, ye chiefs with the will and the power
More leisure for knowledge of good,—
The boon of a sensible evening hour
For mental and heavenly food.
O Vanity, thine are these souls,
O merciless Trade, at thy bidding they pine,
And misery over them rolls!
Grant them, ye chiefs with the will and the power
More leisure for knowledge of good,—
The boon of a sensible evening hour
For mental and heavenly food.
Aye, how many myriads with every day
Wake only to worry and pain,
Life's beauty and blessedness shredded away,
A mockery cruel and vain!
And all because Man, tyrannical Man,
Wills not that his brother be blest,
But fights against Nature's sabbatical plan
Of righteous and rational rest.
Wake only to worry and pain,
Life's beauty and blessedness shredded away,
A mockery cruel and vain!
And all because Man, tyrannical Man,
Wills not that his brother be blest,
But fights against Nature's sabbatical plan
Of righteous and rational rest.
You may talk of the Slave, and the chain and the whip,
We have plenty of slavery here;
Steep'd in its bitterness up to the lip
They grind in a bondage severe!
O God! what a heaven this hard earth might be,
If men to each other were kind,
And bodily industry left a man free
To nourish his heart and his mind!
We have plenty of slavery here;
Steep'd in its bitterness up to the lip
They grind in a bondage severe!
O God! what a heaven this hard earth might be,
If men to each other were kind,
And bodily industry left a man free
To nourish his heart and his mind!
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IV. THE BRITISH SLAVE'S REPLY TO A POLITICAL ECONOMIST.
So! you preach me self-reliance,
Emigration,—rights of man?
So! you bid me breathe defiance
As a freeborn Briton can?
Break the fetter, burst the shackle,
Let the despot find me still
Loose from all constraining tackle,
Stout of heart, and strong of will?—
Emigration,—rights of man?
So! you bid me breathe defiance
As a freeborn Briton can?
Break the fetter, burst the shackle,
Let the despot find me still
Loose from all constraining tackle,
Stout of heart, and strong of will?—
Tell the mouse to bell the mouser,
Bid the harnessed jade kick out,
Be the lion's mean arouser
Till his cage he raves about!
Say to Lethargy, be stirring,
Counsel health to fever's cheek,
Preach cold ethics to the erring,
Teach gymnastics to the weak!
Bid the harnessed jade kick out,
Be the lion's mean arouser
Till his cage he raves about!
Say to Lethargy, be stirring,
Counsel health to fever's cheek,
Preach cold ethics to the erring,
Teach gymnastics to the weak!
O, good sir! your weighty reason
Falls like feathers on a fool;
Want has no such leisure season
No such chance to go to school:
Bitter circumstance has bound me,
Everyway its serf and slave,
And for these free hands has found me
Fetters even to the grave!
Falls like feathers on a fool;
Want has no such leisure season
No such chance to go to school:
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Everyway its serf and slave,
And for these free hands has found me
Fetters even to the grave!
You have wit, and time to whet it,
Feeling, knowledge, station, might,
I—my bread it's hard to get it,
All beyond is out of sight,
Out of hope, and out of heeding;
Think you that my stinted soul
Can, like yours, on thoughts be feeding,
Or be kindled like a coal?
Feeling, knowledge, station, might,
I—my bread it's hard to get it,
All beyond is out of sight,
Out of hope, and out of heeding;
Think you that my stinted soul
Can, like yours, on thoughts be feeding,
Or be kindled like a coal?
What the parson weekly preaches,
Pretty seldom understood,
What the book of Nature teaches,
That's my sum of true and good:
Gentlefolks have nobler chances
Prizes all, as things of course;
But the poor man's Circumstances
Bind him down a slave perforce!
Pretty seldom understood,
What the book of Nature teaches,
That's my sum of true and good:
Gentlefolks have nobler chances
Prizes all, as things of course;
But the poor man's Circumstances
Bind him down a slave perforce!
Emigrate?—to where I know not,—
Whilst I cannot break my chain;
Rights of man?—my Rights, they show not,—
And my Wrongs are shown in vain!
And, for what you call “defiance,”
If one act, or word, or look
Even hinted “Self reliance,”
—I'm struck off the Bailiff's book!
Whilst I cannot break my chain;
Rights of man?—my Rights, they show not,—
And my Wrongs are shown in vain!
And, for what you call “defiance,”
If one act, or word, or look
Even hinted “Self reliance,”
—I'm struck off the Bailiff's book!
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V. THE WORKWOMAN.
“The Song of the Shirt,”—O heart-stirring hymn!
How sternly and terribly true
The portrait of misery, ghastly and grim,
That Bard of Humanity drew:
Go, read it once more; none other may paint
So touching a picture as this,—
For he that imagined it now is a saint
At rest in a mansion of bliss!
How sternly and terribly true
The portrait of misery, ghastly and grim,
That Bard of Humanity drew:
Go, read it once more; none other may paint
So touching a picture as this,—
For he that imagined it now is a saint
At rest in a mansion of bliss!
Yet, precept on precept, and line upon line,
And effort again and again,
This, friends, is a duty of yours and of mine,
If we wouldn't labour in vain;
And he that would combat White-Slavery-sin
Must hit its most hideous blot,
To tell how poor womanhood, sickly and thin,
Is treated the worst of the lot!
And effort again and again,
This, friends, is a duty of yours and of mine,
If we wouldn't labour in vain;
And he that would combat White-Slavery-sin
Must hit its most hideous blot,
To tell how poor womanhood, sickly and thin,
Is treated the worst of the lot!
This binder of boots, that stitcher of slops,
These knitters by night and by day,
Are slaves to the tyrants that rule in the shops,
Who grind them for pittance of pay;
And often the delicate daughters of taste,
With needle and need for their goads,
Hard-driven by Fashion with murderous haste,
Like packhorses die on the roads!
These knitters by night and by day,
Are slaves to the tyrants that rule in the shops,
Who grind them for pittance of pay;
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With needle and need for their goads,
Hard-driven by Fashion with murderous haste,
Like packhorses die on the roads!
O Belle of the ball-room, how little you know
Of the pain that has made you so fair;
O bride of Belgravia, hunger and woe
Have drest you so charmingly there!
O buyer of bargains, most cruelly cheap,
Consider what sorrow must lurk
In toil without respite, that strangers may reap
The fruit of such profitless work!
Of the pain that has made you so fair;
O bride of Belgravia, hunger and woe
Have drest you so charmingly there!
O buyer of bargains, most cruelly cheap,
Consider what sorrow must lurk
In toil without respite, that strangers may reap
The fruit of such profitless work!
Come, Queen of the Fashions, so gracefully calm,
And yet with heart throbbing within,
Vouchsafe, as you can, some Imperial Balm
To cure this old system of sin;
Your ladylike milliners,—leave them awhile,
And seek out their want-stricken slaves;
'Twere better your Majesty wasted a smile
On poor honest girls, than on knaves.
And yet with heart throbbing within,
Vouchsafe, as you can, some Imperial Balm
To cure this old system of sin;
Your ladylike milliners,—leave them awhile,
And seek out their want-stricken slaves;
'Twere better your Majesty wasted a smile
On poor honest girls, than on knaves.
And, gentle Society, bargain-befool'd,
Ah, think what embroideries cost!
Remember, when self-exultation has cool'd,
Your gain by some other is lost!
It is gambling unfairly,—where virtue and health
And labour these workwomen give,
While all that you stake is an atom of wealth,
Too little for “Live, and let live!”
Ah, think what embroideries cost!
Remember, when self-exultation has cool'd,
Your gain by some other is lost!
It is gambling unfairly,—where virtue and health
And labour these workwomen give,
While all that you stake is an atom of wealth,
Too little for “Live, and let live!”
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VI. THE OUTCAST.
A walk in the city by day;—
When rural simplicity stops
To wonder at all that is glittering gay
Heap'd in the ticketing shops;
And oftener too gets stopp'd as it goes
By many a sorrow it meets,
The sins and the shames, the troubles and woes
Found in the flinty streets!
When rural simplicity stops
To wonder at all that is glittering gay
Heap'd in the ticketing shops;
And oftener too gets stopp'd as it goes
By many a sorrow it meets,
The sins and the shames, the troubles and woes
Found in the flinty streets!
In spite of Philanthropy's rules,
And all that Exertion has won
By Orderly badges, and Ragged Schools,—
Alas! how little is done:
For an orphaned legion of desperate youth
The scum and the lees of the town,
Outcasts of virtue, and outlaws of truth,
Are prowling up and down!
And all that Exertion has won
By Orderly badges, and Ragged Schools,—
Alas! how little is done:
For an orphaned legion of desperate youth
The scum and the lees of the town,
Outcasts of virtue, and outlaws of truth,
Are prowling up and down!
They live—Heav'n only knows how—
Uncared-for in body and soul,
As foxes in holes, or the rook on the bough,
Or scavenger-dogs of Stamboul:
Three myriads of such (as they tell us) are known,
A homeless and famishing crew
Who roam up and down this labyrinth town
Like jackals in Timbuctoo!—
Uncared-for in body and soul,
As foxes in holes, or the rook on the bough,
Or scavenger-dogs of Stamboul:
Three myriads of such (as they tell us) are known,
A homeless and famishing crew
Who roam up and down this labyrinth town
Like jackals in Timbuctoo!—
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A stroll in the city by night;—
Where sadden'd Humanity's tear
Must ever be dropt for a sorrier sight
The ruins of Womanhood here!
Alas! for their bondage; no heavier chain
Has ever poor African worn,
Than yon wretched creature, whom pleasure and pain
Make equally foul and forlorn!
Where sadden'd Humanity's tear
Must ever be dropt for a sorrier sight
The ruins of Womanhood here!
Alas! for their bondage; no heavier chain
Has ever poor African worn,
Than yon wretched creature, whom pleasure and pain
Make equally foul and forlorn!
Six myriads (they tell us) of these,
Society's commonest slaves,
Live only for guilt, and scorn, and disease
And pine for the beds of their graves;
And profligate men, who from boyhood are curst
By daring to sin as they will,
Add ever new victims, to live like the worst
And to perish like reprobates still!
Society's commonest slaves,
Live only for guilt, and scorn, and disease
And pine for the beds of their graves;
And profligate men, who from boyhood are curst
By daring to sin as they will,
Add ever new victims, to live like the worst
And to perish like reprobates still!
—Who can pretend they are Free?
Free to be starved, if they cease
By sinning, or stealing, or begging, to be
Scabs on the world's increase!
Free?—when a network of Circumstance strong
Closes them only to Crime,
And multiplied evil and manifold wrong
Are rife in a Christian clime!
Free to be starved, if they cease
By sinning, or stealing, or begging, to be
Scabs on the world's increase!
Free?—when a network of Circumstance strong
Closes them only to Crime,
And multiplied evil and manifold wrong
Are rife in a Christian clime!
O world,—poor travailing world,—
When shall your oppressed go free?
And Rights be set up? and Wrongs be down hurl'd?
Ah, when shall these things be?
—Come speedily, Holy One, King of the Just!
No power but Thine can save
The cruel from treading the meek in the dust,
Or ransom the poor White Slave!
When shall your oppressed go free?
And Rights be set up? and Wrongs be down hurl'd?
Ah, when shall these things be?
—Come speedily, Holy One, King of the Just!
No power but Thine can save
The cruel from treading the meek in the dust,
Or ransom the poor White Slave!
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VII. THE SERVANT-OF-ALL-WORK.
Drudgery all the day,
Drudgery half the night,—
Scolded about and worried away,
Begrudged of sleep, and victuals and pay,
And always in dread of “what Missus will say,”
Thou scared little weary wight,—
Alas, for that poor thin face so pale,
I read in its features this piteous tale
Drudgery half the night,—
Scolded about and worried away,
Begrudged of sleep, and victuals and pay,
And always in dread of “what Missus will say,”
Thou scared little weary wight,—
Alas, for that poor thin face so pale,
I read in its features this piteous tale
She was a peasant's child
In the prison-like Union born;
Never on her had a father smiled,
And as for her mother, degraded, defiled,
By some young reprobate basely beguiled,
Deserted and forlorn,
She died in giving her little one birth
And left the poor babe alone on this earth!
In the prison-like Union born;
Never on her had a father smiled,
And as for her mother, degraded, defiled,
By some young reprobate basely beguiled,
Deserted and forlorn,
She died in giving her little one birth
And left the poor babe alone on this earth!
So, under workhouse care
Somehow the child grew up,
Stunted and spare, upon stinted fare
Without one gleam of kindliness there,
One touch of humanity ever so rare,
One drop of sweet in her cup,—
An ill-used, cunning, ignorant mind,
Blunted and bruised by a world unkind.
Somehow the child grew up,
Stunted and spare, upon stinted fare
Without one gleam of kindliness there,
One touch of humanity ever so rare,
One drop of sweet in her cup,—
An ill-used, cunning, ignorant mind,
Blunted and bruised by a world unkind.
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And thus the years went round,
And then to service she went;
The stern taskmaster was easily found,
The trembling apprentice as easily bound,
And so this drudge has been work'd and ground,
And still slaves on, content,
Too deeply acquainted with sorrow and strife
To care to be otherwise all her life!
And then to service she went;
The stern taskmaster was easily found,
The trembling apprentice as easily bound,
And so this drudge has been work'd and ground,
And still slaves on, content,
Too deeply acquainted with sorrow and strife
To care to be otherwise all her life!
—Nay but, Liberty's Nest!
Dear England, home of the Free!
So frankly made welcome to strangers distrest,
Can thine own daughters, pining for rest,
Be thus ground down, unhelp'd tho' opprest,
Be thus enslaved in thee?
Can woman, or man, or childhood appear
So hopelessly, endlessly, desolate here?
Dear England, home of the Free!
So frankly made welcome to strangers distrest,
Can thine own daughters, pining for rest,
Be thus ground down, unhelp'd tho' opprest,
Be thus enslaved in thee?
Can woman, or man, or childhood appear
So hopelessly, endlessly, desolate here?
Bear witness, many a Place
Where such bad servitude grinds,—
Where Sunday is never a Sabbath of grace,
And Toil never reaches the goal of its race,
And Cruelty buffets Humility's face,
And Thraldom Liberty binds,—
And hardships, and evils, and wrongs you may see
To rival almost the dark deeds of Legree!
Where such bad servitude grinds,—
Where Sunday is never a Sabbath of grace,
And Toil never reaches the goal of its race,
And Cruelty buffets Humility's face,
And Thraldom Liberty binds,—
And hardships, and evils, and wrongs you may see
To rival almost the dark deeds of Legree!
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VIII. THE COALPIT GNOME.
Christmas hearth! Christmas hearth!
Bright with the blazing coals,
And echoing clear with children's mirth,
Goodwill tow'rds men and peace upon earth,
And blessing to bodies and souls:
Ah, Christmas hearth! a gloomier light
Streams from those thy coals so bright
While sternly before my musing sight
This dark hearse-reverie rolls!
Bright with the blazing coals,
And echoing clear with children's mirth,
Goodwill tow'rds men and peace upon earth,
And blessing to bodies and souls:
Ah, Christmas hearth! a gloomier light
Streams from those thy coals so bright
While sternly before my musing sight
This dark hearse-reverie rolls!
The coalpit!—come with me
Deep down the perilous shaft—
And, how many objects sad to see,
Pale abject girls and boys there be
Doom'd to this deadly craft:
Ah, blazing coals! what labour and pain
From earth's hard bowels have torn you amain,
By women and men that have sweated like rain,
And babes that have never laught!
Deep down the perilous shaft—
And, how many objects sad to see,
Pale abject girls and boys there be
Doom'd to this deadly craft:
Ah, blazing coals! what labour and pain
From earth's hard bowels have torn you amain,
By women and men that have sweated like rain,
And babes that have never laught!
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The laden gang creeps on,
Women with browbound packs,
Up sultry galleries, one by one,
Headlong dragging ton by ton
These coals upon their backs!
And children, aching with ague and cramp,
Wearily watching the blue-flamed lamp,
Lest death steal by on the breath of the damp,
If those tired eyes relax.
Women with browbound packs,
Up sultry galleries, one by one,
Headlong dragging ton by ton
These coals upon their backs!
And children, aching with ague and cramp,
Wearily watching the blue-flamed lamp,
Lest death steal by on the breath of the damp,
If those tired eyes relax.
And blows from merciless men,
And dread of the pick or the knife,
And nameless wrongs beyond mortal ken
Deepen the dark of their noisome den,
With terrors, and oaths, and strife:
O hard is the fate of this human gnome,
The woman, or child, with never a home,
Save under the coalpit's Tartarus dome,
The home of a miner's life!
And dread of the pick or the knife,
And nameless wrongs beyond mortal ken
Deepen the dark of their noisome den,
With terrors, and oaths, and strife:
O hard is the fate of this human gnome,
The woman, or child, with never a home,
Save under the coalpit's Tartarus dome,
The home of a miner's life!
Good Ashley! thine is the eye
To pity and help such a slave;
Priest and Levite, both pass by,
But this Samaritan still draws nigh,
His generous hands still save!
And yet, how much remains to be done;
For though in a Blue-book the battle be won,
—They still drag coal-corves, ton by ton,
White slaves from cradle to grave!
To pity and help such a slave;
Priest and Levite, both pass by,
But this Samaritan still draws nigh,
His generous hands still save!
And yet, how much remains to be done;
For though in a Blue-book the battle be won,
—They still drag coal-corves, ton by ton,
White slaves from cradle to grave!
24
IX. OUR NATIONAL DEFENDERS.
All honour to Discipline!—happy the land
Whose soldiers and sailors obey,—
Whose captains and colonels are strict in command,
And guide their strong steeds with a resolute hand
By Order, the rule of the day.
Whose soldiers and sailors obey,—
Whose captains and colonels are strict in command,
And guide their strong steeds with a resolute hand
By Order, the rule of the day.
All praise to the captain,—whose spirited crew
Is ready by noon or by night
With cheerful alacrity,—steadily too,—
His daring and masculine bidding to do
In spite of the storm or the fight!
Is ready by noon or by night
With cheerful alacrity,—steadily too,—
His daring and masculine bidding to do
In spite of the storm or the fight!
All praise to the colonel,—whose troops well in hand
At double-quick rush at the guns,
Or like a built wall on the battlefield stand,
Or hold without malice an enemy's land
As dear British mothers' own sons!
At double-quick rush at the guns,
Or like a built wall on the battlefield stand,
Or hold without malice an enemy's land
As dear British mothers' own sons!
But, scorn for yon Admiral, bitter old Salt,
Who swears “he'll make hell of his ship!”
Who flogs honest Jack for the hint of a fault,
And brands the ship's company “Slaves”—to exalt
The pride of his heart and his lip.
Who swears “he'll make hell of his ship!”
Who flogs honest Jack for the hint of a fault,
And brands the ship's company “Slaves”—to exalt
The pride of his heart and his lip.
25
Poor Jack is right ready to watch and to work,
And any one's servant to be,
All dangers to dare, and no duty to shirk,—
But cannot put up with that terrible Turk
A quarter-deck tyrant at sea!
And any one's servant to be,
All dangers to dare, and no duty to shirk,—
But cannot put up with that terrible Turk
A quarter-deck tyrant at sea!
Give, give him his comforts; for hardships enough
Must ever be mates of poor Jack;
But his heart is as soft as his bosom is rough
And he feels like a woman the curse or the cuff
And the mark of the cat on his back!
Must ever be mates of poor Jack;
But his heart is as soft as his bosom is rough
And he feels like a woman the curse or the cuff
And the mark of the cat on his back!
And—General Martinet, one little verse
To you and your majors is due:
Be kind to your men; for no blunder is worse
Than still to be flinging the cuff or the curse
At Englishmen honest as you!
To you and your majors is due:
Be kind to your men; for no blunder is worse
Than still to be flinging the cuff or the curse
At Englishmen honest as you!
Don't tease them with pipeclay; nor drill them too hard;
Nor shave their moustachios away,—
Why shouldn't their beards be “outparding the pard?”—
Nor stiffen their stocks on parade, nor on guard;
Nor scold them by night and by day.
Nor shave their moustachios away,—
Why shouldn't their beards be “outparding the pard?”—
Nor stiffen their stocks on parade, nor on guard;
Nor scold them by night and by day.
Let Jack and his brother, who fight for us, find
They serve under true-hearted men,
As officers strict, but as gentlemen kind,
And so to each Service good treatment shall bind
Our champions most heartily then!
They serve under true-hearted men,
As officers strict, but as gentlemen kind,
And so to each Service good treatment shall bind
Our champions most heartily then!
26
X. SLOP-JOBBING.
Surely, to labour for what is not bread,—
To earn for an egg a stone instead,—
Cheap work, with victuals so dear;
Tho' skill'd with the hand, and shrewd with the head,
To be drudging on still, half clothed, half fed,
—Hard lines for the poor man here!
To earn for an egg a stone instead,—
Cheap work, with victuals so dear;
Tho' skill'd with the hand, and shrewd with the head,
To be drudging on still, half clothed, half fed,
—Hard lines for the poor man here!
The journeyman sits in his garret dim
Till his legs are numb'd and his eyeballs swim,
At piecework night and day;
His sharp Jewish master makes money of him,
Sweating his muscles, limb by limb,
And coining his life away!
Till his legs are numb'd and his eyeballs swim,
At piecework night and day;
His sharp Jewish master makes money of him,
Sweating his muscles, limb by limb,
And coining his life away!
The lower he drops in the social scale,
Tho' jobs never cease, nor diligence fail,
Worse paid is work ever found;
That varnish'd chair in the furniture sale
Yields only some pence to this journeyman pale,
—To his master the rest of the Pound!
Tho' jobs never cease, nor diligence fail,
Worse paid is work ever found;
That varnish'd chair in the furniture sale
Yields only some pence to this journeyman pale,
—To his master the rest of the Pound!
27
Those huge jack-boots of the cavalry-swell,
These coats that Isaac and Jacob sell
So cheap to the full-dress gent,—
Their gains to the firm what sum can tell?
For the hands that have done their work so well
Earn barely a two per cent!
These coats that Isaac and Jacob sell
So cheap to the full-dress gent,—
Their gains to the firm what sum can tell?
For the hands that have done their work so well
Earn barely a two per cent!
Then illness comes; and the crushing load
Of debts increasingly hopelessly owed,
And all sold up at the last;
And Honesty, urged by Necessity's goad,
As a Union-pauper at work on the road
Breaks stones—but not his fast.
Of debts increasingly hopelessly owed,
And all sold up at the last;
And Honesty, urged by Necessity's goad,
As a Union-pauper at work on the road
Breaks stones—but not his fast.
On water-gruel he lives, and dies,—
For death makes free his soul for the skies;
And as for its carcass asleep,—
Into his muscles the surgeon pries;
For Science claims such cheap supplies,
Society's pay for his keep!
For death makes free his soul for the skies;
And as for its carcass asleep,—
Into his muscles the surgeon pries;
For Science claims such cheap supplies,
Society's pay for his keep!
O pity and shame for such a man's woes!
Yet thousands of garrets and cellars disclose
Like tale of suffering long;
Industry, Honesty,—every one knows
What ought to be gain'd by such virtues as those
If Right were the rule and not Wrong.
Yet thousands of garrets and cellars disclose
Like tale of suffering long;
Industry, Honesty,—every one knows
What ought to be gain'd by such virtues as those
If Right were the rule and not Wrong.
28
XI. BETTER BARRACOONS: OR, PROFITABLE CHARITY.
Men of money, shrewd and skill'd
In putting capital to nurse,
Ready to pull down streets, or build,
If either helps to fill the purse,
Now let me tell your wit a plan
How to reap a royal rent
Out of—doing good to Man,
Charity, at cent per cent.
In putting capital to nurse,
Ready to pull down streets, or build,
If either helps to fill the purse,
Now let me tell your wit a plan
How to reap a royal rent
Out of—doing good to Man,
Charity, at cent per cent.
From Belgravia cease awhile,
Cold, repulsive, stern and white,
Where each huge palatial pile
Frowns the poor man out of sight;
From Tyburnia's dreary squares
Turn your energies aside,—
And look to how the workman fares
Who built those stuccoed haunts of pride.
Cold, repulsive, stern and white,
Where each huge palatial pile
Frowns the poor man out of sight;
From Tyburnia's dreary squares
Turn your energies aside,—
And look to how the workman fares
Who built those stuccoed haunts of pride.
In stagnant cellars, dim with stench,
In putrid alleys, choked by drains,
Or where the reeking gutters drench
Some garret, rotten with the rains,
Beggar'd of water, light, and air,
And every good that gladdens life,
The poor mechanic festers there
With pallid babes and haggard wife!
In putrid alleys, choked by drains,
Or where the reeking gutters drench
Some garret, rotten with the rains,
Beggar'd of water, light, and air,
And every good that gladdens life,
The poor mechanic festers there
With pallid babes and haggard wife!
29
Can yonder neighbouring flashy shops,
Glorious in plaster, glass, and gilt,
Where Hebrews ticket showy slops,
And bankrupt trade is overbuilt,
Can those repay your risk and cost,
Or make you half so blest or rich
As finding homes for these half-lost
Who crowd the dunghill and the ditch?
Glorious in plaster, glass, and gilt,
Where Hebrews ticket showy slops,
And bankrupt trade is overbuilt,
Can those repay your risk and cost,
Or make you half so blest or rich
As finding homes for these half-lost
Who crowd the dunghill and the ditch?
Build a broad street, a hive of homes,
Where workmen mostly go and come,
—A thousand weekly rented rooms
Will make a pretty yearly sum,—
Build it for cleanliness and health,
And judge it wisdom well to build,
Lest—foul miasma blast your wealth,
And that—your lodgings may be fill'd.
Where workmen mostly go and come,
—A thousand weekly rented rooms
Will make a pretty yearly sum,—
Build it for cleanliness and health,
And judge it wisdom well to build,
Lest—foul miasma blast your wealth,
And that—your lodgings may be fill'd.
Build it for comfort, ay and pleasure,
For winter's warmth, and summer's cool,
With reading-room for evening leisure,
And—why not chapel, hall, and school?
The good mechanic's homestead-college
Where, with his homely flock and friends,
Work over, he may feed on knowledge
Or gather up its odds and ends.
For winter's warmth, and summer's cool,
With reading-room for evening leisure,
And—why not chapel, hall, and school?
The good mechanic's homestead-college
Where, with his homely flock and friends,
Work over, he may feed on knowledge
Or gather up its odds and ends.
Better than shop-fronts, gaudy-gay,
Better than mansions, let or sold,
Will such a wise investment pay,
And prove a mine of good and gold:
Of good,—for so shall honest men
In healthy dwellings live content;
Of gold,—your well-used money then
Shall yield the builder cent per cent!
Better than mansions, let or sold,
Will such a wise investment pay,
And prove a mine of good and gold:
Of good,—for so shall honest men
In healthy dwellings live content;
Of gold,—your well-used money then
Shall yield the builder cent per cent!
30
XII. THE LIBERATOR.
After all said,—how many more
Of shames and sorrows by the score
Escape without a touch;
After all said, how little hope
With this world's leprosy to cope
In chance of doing much!
Of shames and sorrows by the score
Escape without a touch;
After all said, how little hope
With this world's leprosy to cope
In chance of doing much!
Good statesmanship's acutest scheme,
Philosophy's most perfect dream,
Democracy's pet plan,
Philanthropy's devoted will,
Not all our zeal, nor all our skill
Can heal the wounds of Man!
Philosophy's most perfect dream,
Democracy's pet plan,
Philanthropy's devoted will,
Not all our zeal, nor all our skill
Can heal the wounds of Man!
With Pleasure's growth, and Wealth's increase,
The contrast, Want, shall never cease,
And Want secures the Slave;
With human nature's cruel mind
Dependent Misery to grind
What brother's hand can save?
The contrast, Want, shall never cease,
And Want secures the Slave;
With human nature's cruel mind
Dependent Misery to grind
What brother's hand can save?
31
Even our sons, the lads at school,
Delight with tyranny to rule
And beat the lower boys,—
Even our daughters, fashion's flowers,
Begrudge the early-closing hours,
And frown on Sunday joys.
Delight with tyranny to rule
And beat the lower boys,—
Even our daughters, fashion's flowers,
Begrudge the early-closing hours,
And frown on Sunday joys.
There is a Brother,—only One,
Whose Spirit does what has been done,
And all in secret heals;
Who wipes away the mourner's tear,
And whispers patience in his ear,
And comfort—when he kneels!
Whose Spirit does what has been done,
And all in secret heals;
Who wipes away the mourner's tear,
And whispers patience in his ear,
And comfort—when he kneels!
He, only He, can change outright
This wretched state of sin and night
For righteousness and day;
And when He cometh,—(when He will!)
Shall scatter every cloud of ill,
And drive all shames away!
This wretched state of sin and night
For righteousness and day;
And when He cometh,—(when He will!)
Shall scatter every cloud of ill,
And drive all shames away!
Meanwhile, it is for you, O Man,
To imitate as best you can
That universal Friend,
To right the Right, and fight the Wrong,
Assured it cannot now be long
All Thraldom has an end!
To imitate as best you can
That universal Friend,
To right the Right, and fight the Wrong,
Assured it cannot now be long
All Thraldom has an end!
T.
| A dozen ballads for the times about White Slavery | |