To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann —
Get up, my child, with me;
Thy father rose at four o’clock
To toil for me and thee.
The fine folks use the plate he makes,
And praise it when they dine;
For John has taste — so we’ll be neat,
Altho’ we can’t be fine.
Then let us shake the carpet well,
And wash and scour the floor,
And hang the weather-glass he made
Beside the cupboard door.
And polish thou the grate, my love;
I’ll mend the sofa arm;
The autumn winds blow damp and chill;
And John loves to be warm.
And bring the new white curtain out,
And string the pink tape on —
Mechanics should be neat and clean:
And I’ll take heed for John.
And brush the little table, chill,
And fetch the ancient books —
John loves to read; and, when he reads,
How like a king he looks!
And fill the music-glasses up
With water fresh and clear;
To-morrow, when he sings and plays,
The street will stop to hear.
And throw the dead flowers from the vase,
And rub it till it glows;
For in the leafless garden yet
He’ll find a winter rose.
And lichen from the wood hell bring.
And mosses from the dell;
And from the sheltered stubble-field,
The scarlet pimpernell.
They sold the chairs, they took the bed, and went;
A fiend’s look after them the husband sent;
His thin wife held him faintly, but in vain;
She saw the alehouse in his scowl of pain —
Hurrah, for bread-tax’d England!
Upon her pregnant womb her hand she laid,
Then stabb’d her living child! and shriek’d, dismay’d —
"Oh, why had I a mother!" wildly said
That saddest mother, gazing on the dead —
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
Slowly she turn’d, and sought the silent room —
Her last-born child’s lone dwellingplace and tomb!
Because they could not purchase earth and prayer,
The dear dead boy had long lain coffin’d there! —
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
But that boy hath a sister — where is she?
Dying, where none a cherub fall’n may see: —
"Mother! O come!" she sobs, with stifled groan,
In that blest isle, where pity turns to stone —
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
Before the judge, the childless stood amazed,
With none to say, “My Lord! the wretch is crazed”.
Crowds saw her perish, but all eyes were dry;
Drunk, in the crowd, her husband saw her die!
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
Around the murderer’s wrists they lock the chain:
What, tyrant? whom hath Rapine’s victim slain
The widow, hunger-stung and sorrow-bent,
Who ask’d, with tears, her lodger’s weekly rent!
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
O Wholesale Dealers in waste, want, and war!
Would that your deeds were written! — and they are!
Written and graved, on minds and hearts oppress’d;
Stamp’d deep, and blood-burnt-in, o’er realms unbless’d! —
Hurrah for bread-tax’d England!
What is a communist? One who hath yearnings
For equal division of unequal earnings:
Idler, or bungler, or both, he is willing
To fork out his penny, and pocket your shilling.
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