Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2238/The Old Politician
Now that Tom Dunstan's cold,
Our shop is duller;
Scarce a story is told,
And our chat has lost the old
Red-republican color.
Though he was sickly and thin,
He gladdened us with his face;
How, warming at rich man's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied folk should be free,
And the money-bags be bled.
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning;
Stitching full, fine and fleet,
While the old Jew on his seat
Sat greasily grinning.
And there Tom said his say,
And prophesied tyranny's death,
And the tallow burnt all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
In the thick smoke of our breath,
Wearily, wearily,
With hearts as heavy as lead;
But, "Patience, she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
And at night when we took here
The pause allowed to us,
The paper came with the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us;
And, then in his witty way,
He threw the jest about —
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and gay!
How he turned them inside out,
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said!
"She's coming. she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
Would mutter, "Master,
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster!
Then it was fine to see Tom flame,
And argue and prove and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame
Or a fit of coughing came
O' sudden, to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
When tyranny should be sped;
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
But Tom was little and weak,
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him.
Ere long the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse all round,
That he might not starve, at least;
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
"She's coming; in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!" cried he,
"Freedom's ahead!"
A little before he died,
To see his passion!
"Bring me a paper!" he cried,
And then to study it tried
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
His looks on me he bent,
And said that savage thing
Of the lords of the Parliament.
Then, darkening — smiling on me,
"What matter if one be dead?
She's coming, at least!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold,
The shop feels duller;
Scarce a story is told,
Our talk has lost the old
Red-republican color.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Ay, here in the dark sit we,
While wearily, wearily,
We hear him call from the dead,
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he;
"Freedom's ahead!"
How long, O Lord, how long
Doth thy handmaid linger —
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the oppressed strong?
Sweet morrow, bring her;
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord, ere hope be fled;
Bring her to men and to me;
O slave, pray still on thy knee,
"Freedom's ahead!"