 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
259
The Union Workhouse.
1837.
[_]
[Written in a desponding mood. The names are those of my children, most of whom are now beyond the reach of want and of workhouse tyranny! I cannot resist saying that the Right Honourable Matthew Talbot Baines was the first Minister who, by his humane and enlightened management, rendered the New Poor Law Act tolerable to the English people.]
Ahouse they've built on yonder slope
Huge, grim, and prison-like, and dull!
With grated walls that shut out Hope,
And cells of wretched paupers full.
And they, if we for help should call,
Will thither take and lodge us thus;
But Ellen, no! Their prison wall,
I swear it, was not built for us!
Huge, grim, and prison-like, and dull!
With grated walls that shut out Hope,
And cells of wretched paupers full.
And they, if we for help should call,
Will thither take and lodge us thus;
But Ellen, no! Their prison wall,
I swear it, was not built for us!
We've lived together fourteen years;
Three boys and four sweet girls are ours;
Our life hath had its hopes and fears,
Its autumn blights, its summer flowers;
But ever with determined front,
And heart that scorned in ill to bow,
Have we sustained Misfortune's brunt:
We never quailed—nor will we now!
Three boys and four sweet girls are ours;
Our life hath had its hopes and fears,
Its autumn blights, its summer flowers;
But ever with determined front,
And heart that scorned in ill to bow,
Have we sustained Misfortune's brunt:
We never quailed—nor will we now!
Our eldest hope—our Sally—she
Who steals from e'en her play to books,
O God! in yon Bastile to see
The sweetness of her modest looks!
And Esty, who hath little mind
For books when there is time to play,
Her little heart would burst, to find
The same dull prison every day!
Who steals from e'en her play to books,
O God! in yon Bastile to see
The sweetness of her modest looks!
260
For books when there is time to play,
Her little heart would burst, to find
The same dull prison every day!
His father's picture, too, my Bob,
My double both in head and heart—
And Bill, whom it were sin to rob
Of his red cheek and emulous part—
And Fanny with her craftiness—
And Jack who screams so very low—
Shall they put on their prison-dress?
My dear—my dear—they shall not go!
My double both in head and heart—
And Bill, whom it were sin to rob
Of his red cheek and emulous part—
And Fanny with her craftiness—
And Jack who screams so very low—
Shall they put on their prison-dress?
My dear—my dear—they shall not go!
They shall not go—to pine apart,
Forgetting kindredship and home;
To lose each impulse of the heart
That binds us wheresoe'er we roam!
And we, whom God and Love made one,
Whom Man and Law would disunite,
We will not, Famine's death to shun,
Sleep there, or wake, a single night!
Forgetting kindredship and home;
To lose each impulse of the heart
That binds us wheresoe'er we roam!
And we, whom God and Love made one,
Whom Man and Law would disunite,
We will not, Famine's death to shun,
Sleep there, or wake, a single night!
Still is their act—in something—mild:
Though I no more must share your rest,
They would permit your infant child
To—tug at an exhausted breast!
And Jack would cease, poor boy! to scream,
Awed by some keeper's rod and threat;
While, sunk in cribs, the rest would dream
Of days—too well remembered yet!
Though I no more must share your rest,
They would permit your infant child
To—tug at an exhausted breast!
And Jack would cease, poor boy! to scream,
Awed by some keeper's rod and threat;
While, sunk in cribs, the rest would dream
Of days—too well remembered yet!
Away! On England's soil we stand;
Our means have, erst, supplied the poor
We have claims on our father-land:—
No, no—that right is ours no more!
But we will die a Beggar's death,
Rather than pass their hated wall!
On some free hill breathe out our breath—
One nameless grave receiving all!
Our means have, erst, supplied the poor
We have claims on our father-land:—
No, no—that right is ours no more!
261
Rather than pass their hated wall!
On some free hill breathe out our breath—
One nameless grave receiving all!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |