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, 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 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 Where starving children huddle and crouch, And not in the haggard's blaze! To Him who sends a drought To parch the fields forlorn, The rain to flood the meadows with mud, The blight to blast the corn, To Him I leave to guide The bolt in its crooked path, To strike the miser's rick, and show 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. Ay, only give me work, And then you need not fear That I shall snare his worship's hare, Or kill his grace's deer; Or leave the yeoman that had a purse Wherever Nature needs, No job I'll shirk of the hardest work, The pauper babe its breath, 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 beerBut 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 No alms I ask, give me my task: Here are the arm, the leg, 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! Who every weekly score Docks labour's little mite, Bestows on the poor at the temple door, Shall visit me in the New Bastile, The Spital, or the Gaol! |