 | English Roses |  |
HOEING.
It is hoeing from the morning,
It is hoeing till the night,
With the burden and the scorning
And the bondage of brute might.
While the patch keeps growing longer
But the weary arm no stronger,
And the lashes they cut deep;
Yes, and food is mean and scanty,
And the clay bed in the shanty
Kills the very thought of sleep.
I am drudging at the row,
In my dreams and always hoe.
It is hoeing till the night,
With the burden and the scorning
And the bondage of brute might.
While the patch keeps growing longer
But the weary arm no stronger,
And the lashes they cut deep;
Yes, and food is mean and scanty,
And the clay bed in the shanty
Kills the very thought of sleep.
I am drudging at the row,
498
It is hoeing for a master,
It is hoeing in the rough,
At a toil that waxes faster
And can never do enough.
Every day it leaves me older,
And red scars upon my shoulder
Make a shabby dress for me;
And the jewels I do carry
Are the wounds, that if they harry
Yet have left my spirit free.
When I mumble down the row
A dog's prayer, I still must hoe.
It is hoeing in the rough,
At a toil that waxes faster
And can never do enough.
Every day it leaves me older,
And red scars upon my shoulder
Make a shabby dress for me;
And the jewels I do carry
Are the wounds, that if they harry
Yet have left my spirit free.
When I mumble down the row
A dog's prayer, I still must hoe.
It is hoeing on the level,
It is hoeing o'er the steep,
In the service of the Devil
And with eyes that cannot weep.
Ah, the bitter bread of toiling,
And a life for ever spoiling
In a labour that is hell;
As the drear and darker morrow
Brings but sadness to my sorrow,
Like the tolling of a bell!
If I fall across the row,
I get up again to hoe.
It is hoeing o'er the steep,
In the service of the Devil
And with eyes that cannot weep.
Ah, the bitter bread of toiling,
And a life for ever spoiling
In a labour that is hell;
As the drear and darker morrow
Brings but sadness to my sorrow,
Like the tolling of a bell!
If I fall across the row,
I get up again to hoe.
It is hoeing for no wages,
It is hoeing through the years,
And the printing of their pages
Is baptised with blood and tears.
I have seen my darlings sicken
With the same, and then lie stricken
In their furrow and their grave;
And I could not raise a finger
For their help, and limp and linger
On without them yet a Slave.
I am rotting in the row,
And it's death that holds the hoe.
It is hoeing through the years,
And the printing of their pages
Is baptised with blood and tears.
I have seen my darlings sicken
With the same, and then lie stricken
In their furrow and their grave;
And I could not raise a finger
For their help, and limp and linger
On without them yet a Slave.
I am rotting in the row,
And it's death that holds the hoe.
| English Roses | |