09 Nov 1844 Poetry Print E-mail
THE LAY OF THE LABOURER.

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will................
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labour's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth at home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze !
*       *       *      *       *      *

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will.................
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side
And leave the game alive.
*       *       *         *        *

Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labour calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this,
With labour stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer.......
But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer.

No parish money or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task;
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work and not to beg.

Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean,
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labour can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man !

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will.........
Whatever the tool to ply
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge ?

T. H. ...... 'Hood's Magazine '

--------------------------------------

THE ALDERMAN.

[ By a Parishioner of St. Stephen's, Walbrook ]

How gallently, how merrily, they ride upon their way;
Fleet-street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day !
The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright
Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.

All London owns their triumph, they ride along two-deep,
Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they
                                                                            
         keep.
In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and
                                                                            
        stark ;
Oh ! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark ?

Oh ! proud must be our Aldermen, (tho' he looks queer
                                                                            
    to-day)
Of all the glories he shall win upon next Lord Mayor's day;
He's fought the fight and conquered ('how'  is neither here
                                                                            
nor there)
Nobility, which he shall have, when he's installed "Lord"
                                                                            
     Mayor.

I would I were an Alderman, churchwarden in our ward,
To hold the books for eighteen years, and no accounts afford
I'd say to "Punch" or Croly, who dare to make so free,
Some day I'll be Lord Mayor, and then you'll see what we
                                                                            
will see !

Our Alderman look'd half-ashamed, and more ashamed he
                                                                            
       grew,
Still spoke he to Sir Claudius, and smiled on all he knew;
He look'd up to the windows, and he look'd down by his
                                                                            
        knee,
And there, in every hand, his eye that horrid 'Punch' did see.

Last night an awful rumour came over Walbrook way,
And we heard our fine old Alderman the balance meant
                                                                            
   to pay;
The Vestry hoped it might be so, but nought else could we
                                                                            
      hear
To give us hope we should be out of Chancery this year.

All night we talked it over, we couldn't go to sleep,
And this morning, all through Walbrook, on Gibbs our eye
                                                                            
   to keep.
He rides among the Aldermen, his gay gown streaming free,
But we fear we may whistle ere the balance we shall see.

...........Punch.........................
 
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