The sinewy Smith, little he recks of his own child—the sword;
The men of gear, think you they fear, their handiwork—a Lord?
And undismayed, yon sons of trade might see the battle's front,
Who bravely bore, nor bowed before, the deadlier face of want.
III.
What lack we here of all the pomps that lure your kerns to death?
Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor music's martial breath;
And if we broke the slavish yoke our suppliant race endure,
No robbers we—but chivalry—the Army of the Poor.
Out on ye now, ye Lordly crew, that do your betters wrong—
We are not thieves, we are not knaves, but merciful as strong.
Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would fly our first defiance;
In us—in our strong, tranquil breasts—abides your sole reliance.
IV.
Aye, keep them all, castle and hall, coffers and costly jewels—
Keep your vile gain, and in its train the passions that it fuels.
We envy not your lordly lot—its bloom or its decayance:
But ye have that we claim as ours—our right in long abeyance.
Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste our freedom,
Oh! suff'ring poor, oh! patient poor, how bitterly you need them!—
"Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your social charter,
And city slave or rustic serf, the toiler is its martyr.
V.
Where Frank or Norman shed their sweat the goodly crop is theirs—
If Norway's toil makes rich the soil, she eats the fruit she rears—
O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, saving the Lord on high;
Why are we swindled—sabred—starved?—my masters, tell us why.
