University of Virginia Library

FATHER.
Thou knowst 'tis said and knowst I deeply drink,—
Without support how can I write or think?
How could I say that this pure mercy's bill
Would ruin thousands, with each little mill
Among the glens, where runs the moorland stream!
We know they are not constant like the steam,
Can the great O---r tell the rills to run?
Can he call down the moon, or stop the sun?
Can he in wisdom drive six hundred wrong?
Or are his noisy arguments so strong
That labour must be rul'd at his command?
As soon let lunatics control the land,
Plead with the Lords in declamation wild,
Then tell how all his brother maniacs smil'd.

FACTORY CHILD.
Tell us how he schemes to write,
Tell us that priests sometimes indite;
But be it spoken to my sorrow,
I once was lent, but never borrow;
Now I see some people's crest
Nodding high above the rest;
Thompson's reason beat them all,
Made even Sadler's saddle fall;
Broke the girths, the crupper broke;
'Gainst deep design the truth he spoke,
Spoke as a man fit to be heard,
And reason smil'd at every word:
If some should Bradford represent,
Whether should O---, or he be sent;
One is the moon that round us runs,
The other light is our own sun's.
What have parsons here to do?
Let them to the factory go,
Work and try, but let alone
The way in which the work is done;
Factory masters help to keep
Those who preach or study deep.
Grateful then are those to trade,
Work while we will if those are paid:
Their children to the mills ne'er sent,
They for their houses pay no rent;
No! they can better livings make,
And few till eight o'clock awake.
Some talk, but yet have hearts like rocks,
Their glory is the Sunday box;
Vain flatt'rers of the rich and great,
While they are paupers on the state.
The great mill-owners wish much good,
Witness such men as Mr. W---d;
With capital he then could spin,
And half a country's trade grasp in,
While little masters might give o'er.
To wander destitute and poor.
Then to such speeches never list,
They spring from some monopolist,
Or from some high-blue Tory sent,
Who would aspire to Parliament.

FACTORY CHILD'S MASTER.
Now, did I ever strike thee with this hand?
Would those have me to let my fact'ry stand?
I heard each speech and what the great ones said,—
Give us cheap corn, and let us have a trade;
Why blind us with a simple factory bill?
We are awake and see the greatest ill—
So blind Bartimeus blindly grop'd his way,
Till He who made us all first used the clay.
Now light is come, and England's parents free
To send their children to the factory;
'Tis poverty that hangs upon us all,
Sinks down our trade, and makes the nation fall.
The children I respect and pity too;
I wish to pay, yes, every debt that's due.
It is not cruelty, as late was said,
That keeps my factory children out of bed;
I have no gains, nor ever use you hard,
And week by week you get your due reward;
Had ye to go to F---y H---ll for your bread,
A few, few weeks perhaps you might be fed,
But you must soon return with falling tears,
But I have paid your wages now for years;
Let Oastler speak, let Hamilton and Wood
Plead for my factory children's health and good;
Let Forster come, and such as love to be
Heard in the crowd, work in the factory;
Let them have goods to make and wool to buy,
Wages to pay, and yet no market nigh;
To see the parents of the factory child
Looking despair, with features pale and wild,
Come for their wages long ere these are earn'd.
These things I know, and oft at these have mourn'd,
Oft have I wished that those who much do say,
Would be so kind as one week's wages pay;
But words are neither silver nor yet gold,
They talk, but to their purses cry ‘hold, hold!’
As soon expect a goat a sheep to turn,
As soon behold the mighty ocean burn,
As soon shall ev'ry church change to a mill,
As Parliament to grant a Ten Hours' Bill.
In every part of Yorkshire I have been,
The child and manufacturers have I seen,
And though the system may be fraught with ill,
The working classes fear a Ten Hours' Bill.
Let great taxation greatly fall, and then
There might be some great hope of working ten.
Reduce your rents, the harass'd tenants cry,
Then Sadler talk of infant slavery.
We all are slaves—yes, some are slaves to pride,
Though humble on a donkey he may ride;
He may aspire to be some day a knight
In Stephen's hall, to show his glorious light:
There, like some Cicero of ancient times,
To charm three hundred with his borrow'd rhymes.