English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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MINIMUM AND MAXIMUM. (Old style). |
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| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
MINIMUM AND MAXIMUM. (Old style).
He is only a poor man, a beggar, a boor man,
With an animal trust;
A machine for the using that has no refusing,
And content with a crust.
He's a sheep for the slaughter, at times with a daughter
Who may humour our lust.
He has feet for rough roads and a back bearing loads,
With a stomach for words that are sharper than goads;
And in suitable places, the pigwash, the traces,
He is helpful—be just!
Stiff as steeling, no feeling, though kingdoms are reeling,
With a passion for ale and a story if stale,
He's a match for the firiest sun or the gale
With the iciest gust.
Let us grind him and bind him and closer enwind him
With our burdens and fetters, and show him his betters—
Lest he ever should rust.
Do not talk of a guinea, Mum,
Keep his wages a minimum
In the bondage of dust;
With the labour a maximum,
Let us bully and tax him, Mum;
It's pure prudence, we must.
With an animal trust;
A machine for the using that has no refusing,
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He's a sheep for the slaughter, at times with a daughter
Who may humour our lust.
He has feet for rough roads and a back bearing loads,
With a stomach for words that are sharper than goads;
And in suitable places, the pigwash, the traces,
He is helpful—be just!
Stiff as steeling, no feeling, though kingdoms are reeling,
With a passion for ale and a story if stale,
He's a match for the firiest sun or the gale
With the iciest gust.
Let us grind him and bind him and closer enwind him
With our burdens and fetters, and show him his betters—
Lest he ever should rust.
Do not talk of a guinea, Mum,
Keep his wages a minimum
In the bondage of dust;
With the labour a maximum,
Let us bully and tax him, Mum;
It's pure prudence, we must.
He has sinew and muscle for market, to tussle
With his mother the soil;
And the dungheap's his brother, the smell and the smother
Are his honey and oil;
And the things of our loathing, make dinners and clothing—
Refuse, rags and old coil.
Do not pity in haste his bad living or taste,
He is happy with little and feasts on our waste;
Though, if weather be cruel, there's tea and the fuel
For his kettle to boil.
And his station's mean rations, his sole expectations;
He's but fitted to squeeze, should he famish or wheeze,
And for frost and the snow with their rigours to freeze
Or the summer to broil.
We can bleed him who need him, and carefully feed him
With a measured-out pittance and lowest remittance
That will safeguard his toil.
And no bother is in him Mum,
With his wages a minimum
And the mucking and moil.
While we sweat him the maximum,
Give the shovel and axe him, Mum,
And impress as the wax him, Mum,
We will collar the spoil.
With his mother the soil;
And the dungheap's his brother, the smell and the smother
Are his honey and oil;
And the things of our loathing, make dinners and clothing—
Refuse, rags and old coil.
Do not pity in haste his bad living or taste,
He is happy with little and feasts on our waste;
Though, if weather be cruel, there's tea and the fuel
For his kettle to boil.
And his station's mean rations, his sole expectations;
He's but fitted to squeeze, should he famish or wheeze,
321
Or the summer to broil.
We can bleed him who need him, and carefully feed him
With a measured-out pittance and lowest remittance
That will safeguard his toil.
And no bother is in him Mum,
With his wages a minimum
And the mucking and moil.
While we sweat him the maximum,
Give the shovel and axe him, Mum,
And impress as the wax him, Mum,
We will collar the spoil.
| English Roses | |