 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Cooper |  |
281
SMALLER PRISON RHYMES.
283
CHARTIST CHAUNT.
Truth is growing—hearts are
glowing
With the flame of Liberty:
Light is breaking—Thrones are quaking—
Hark!—the trumpet of the Free!
Long, in lowly whispers breathing,
Freedom wandered drearily—
Still, in faith, her laurel wreathing
For the day when there should be
Freemen shouting—‘Victory!’
With the flame of Liberty:
Light is breaking—Thrones are quaking—
Hark!—the trumpet of the Free!
Long, in lowly whispers breathing,
Freedom wandered drearily—
Still, in faith, her laurel wreathing
For the day when there should be
Freemen shouting—‘Victory!’
Now, she seeketh him that speaketh
Fearlessly of lawless might;
And she speedeth him that leadeth
Brethren on to win the Right.
Soon, the slave shall cease to sorrow—
Cease to toil in agony;
Yea, the cry may swell to-morrow
Over land and over sea—
‘Brethren, shout—ye all are free!’
Fearlessly of lawless might;
And she speedeth him that leadeth
Brethren on to win the Right.
Soon, the slave shall cease to sorrow—
Cease to toil in agony;
Yea, the cry may swell to-morrow
Over land and over sea—
‘Brethren, shout—ye all are free!’
Freedom bringeth joy that singeth
All day long and never tires:
No more sadness—all is gladness
In the hearts that she inspires:
For, she breathes a soft compassion
Where the tyrant kindled rage;
And she saith to every nation—
‘Brethren, cease wild war to wage:
Earth is your blest heritage.’
All day long and never tires:
No more sadness—all is gladness
In the hearts that she inspires:
For, she breathes a soft compassion
Where the tyrant kindled rage;
And she saith to every nation—
‘Brethren, cease wild war to wage:
Earth is your blest heritage.’
284
Though kings render their defender
Titles, gold, and splendours gay—
Lo, thy glory—warrior gory—
Like a dream shall fade away!
Gentle Peace her balm of healing
On the bleeding world shall pour;
Brethren, love for brethren feeling,
Shall proclaim, from shore to shore—
‘Shout—the sword shall slay no more!’
Titles, gold, and splendours gay—
Lo, thy glory—warrior gory—
Like a dream shall fade away!
Gentle Peace her balm of healing
On the bleeding world shall pour;
Brethren, love for brethren feeling,
Shall proclaim, from shore to shore—
‘Shout—the sword shall slay no more!’
285
CHARTIST SONG.
A song for the Free—the brave
and the free—
Who feareth no tyrant's frown:
Who scorneth to bow, in obeisance low,
To mitre or to crown:
Who owneth no lord with crosier or sword,
And bendeth to Right alone;
Where'er he may dwell, his worth men shall tell,
When a thousand years are gone!
Who feareth no tyrant's frown:
Who scorneth to bow, in obeisance low,
To mitre or to crown:
Who owneth no lord with crosier or sword,
And bendeth to Right alone;
Where'er he may dwell, his worth men shall tell,
When a thousand years are gone!
For Tyler of old, a heart-chorus bold
Let Labour's children sing!
For the smith with the soul that disdain'd base control,
Nor trembled before a king;
For the heart that was brave, though pierced by a knave
Ere victory for Right was won—
They'll tell his fair fame, and cheer his blythe name,
When a thousand years are gone!
Let Labour's children sing!
For the smith with the soul that disdain'd base control,
Nor trembled before a king;
For the heart that was brave, though pierced by a knave
Ere victory for Right was won—
They'll tell his fair fame, and cheer his blythe name,
When a thousand years are gone!
For the high foe of Wrong, great Hampden, a song—
The fearless and the sage!
Who, at king-craft's frown, the gauntlet threw down,
And dared the tyrant's rage;
Who away the scabbard threw, when the battle blade he drew,
And with gallant heart led on!
How he bravely fell, our children shall tell,
When a thousand years are gone!
The fearless and the sage!
Who, at king-craft's frown, the gauntlet threw down,
And dared the tyrant's rage;
Who away the scabbard threw, when the battle blade he drew,
And with gallant heart led on!
How he bravely fell, our children shall tell,
When a thousand years are gone!
286
For the mountain child of Scotia wild—
For noble Wallace a strain!
O'er the Border ground let the chaunt resound:
It will not be heard in vain.
For the Scot will awake, and the theme uptake
Of deeds by the patriot done:—
They'll hold his name dear, nor refuse it a tear,
When a thousand years are gone!
For noble Wallace a strain!
O'er the Border ground let the chaunt resound:
It will not be heard in vain.
For the Scot will awake, and the theme uptake
Of deeds by the patriot done:—
They'll hold his name dear, nor refuse it a tear,
When a thousand years are gone!
An anthem we'll swell for bold William Tell,
The peasant of soul so grand!
Who fearlessly broke haughty Gesler's yoke,
And set free his fatherland:
His deeds shall be sung, with blythesome tongue,
By maiden, sire, and son,
Where the eagles climb o'er the Alps sublime,
When a thousand years are gone.
The peasant of soul so grand!
Who fearlessly broke haughty Gesler's yoke,
And set free his fatherland:
His deeds shall be sung, with blythesome tongue,
By maiden, sire, and son,
Where the eagles climb o'er the Alps sublime,
When a thousand years are gone.
For our Charter a song! It tarrieth long—
But we will not despair;
For, though Death's dark doom upon us all may come,
Ere we the blessing share,—
Our happy children they shall see the happy day
When Freedom's boon is won;
And our Charter shall be the boast of the Free,
When a thousand years are gone!
But we will not despair;
For, though Death's dark doom upon us all may come,
Ere we the blessing share,—
Our happy children they shall see the happy day
When Freedom's boon is won;
And our Charter shall be the boast of the Free,
When a thousand years are gone!
287
CHARTIST SONG.
The time shall come when Wrong shall
end,
When peasant to peer no more shall bend—
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway,
And the Many no more their frown obey.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter's won!
When peasant to peer no more shall bend—
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway,
And the Many no more their frown obey.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter's won!
The time shall come when the artisan
Shall homage no more the titled man—
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er and the Charter's won!
Shall homage no more the titled man—
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er and the Charter's won!
The time shall come when the weavers' band
Shall hunger no more, in their fatherland—
When the factory child can sleep till day,
And smile while it dreams of sport and play.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter's won!
Shall hunger no more, in their fatherland—
When the factory child can sleep till day,
And smile while it dreams of sport and play.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done—
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter's won!
The time shall come when Man shall hold
His brother more dear than sordid gold—
When the Negro's stain his freeborn mind
Shall sever no more from human—kind.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee!
His brother more dear than sordid gold—
When the Negro's stain his freeborn mind
Shall sever no more from human—kind.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee!
The time shall come when kingly crown
And mitre for toys of the Past are shown—
When the Fierce and False alike shall fall,
And Mercy and Truth encircle all.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee!
And mitre for toys of the Past are shown—
288
And Mercy and Truth encircle all.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee!
The time shall come when earth shall be
A garden of joy, from sea to sea—
When the slaughterous sword is drawn no more,
And goodness exults from shore to shore.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till goodness shall hold high jubilee!
A garden of joy, from sea to sea—
When the slaughterous sword is drawn no more,
And goodness exults from shore to shore.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free—
Till goodness shall hold high jubilee!
289
THE WOODMAN'S SONG.
I would not be a crownëd king,
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.
I would not be a gentleman,
For all his hawks and hounds,—
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,—
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.
For all his hawks and hounds,—
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,—
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.
I would not be a shaven priest,
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,—
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,—
I'll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,—
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,—
I'll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.
290
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
O choose thou the maid with the gentle
blue eye,
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.
If thou weddest a maid with a bold, staring look,
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,—
Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,—
Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook.
The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife;
The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:
'Twere better to tarry,
Unless thou canst marry
To sweeten the bitters of life!
The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife:
'Twere better to tarry,
Unless thou canst marry
To sweeten the bitters of life!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Cooper | |