Singers
SINGERS IN THE STEEPLE.
At the belfry window the ringer stood,
A vigorous form of giant size.
His thatch of red hair, unkempt and rude,
Was blown down over his eyes.
Ding! Dong!
He tramped at the treadle and sang his song:
A vigorous form of giant size.
His thatch of red hair, unkempt and rude,
Was blown down over his eyes.
Ding! Dong!
He tramped at the treadle and sang his song:
"Thou mighty thundering church-bell, thou,
With lips and tongue of metal that ring,
Thou callest the people to worship now,
But this my own psalm I prefer to sing.
The weary week-days back to Monday
Are slaves to the rich man, the money-lord.
The only day that steals from his hoard
A paltry copper is Sunday.
His life is a heaven. Ours instead
Is a hell. We are ragged and eat hard bread.
At home our loved ones are sighing,
While starved we row for a surfeited race
Their barge of trade with sweat in our face
And weep at the oars we are plying."
Ding! Dong!
"May vengeance dire consume them!
When shall I ring in redress of wrong,
And God's own judgment doom them?
With lips and tongue of metal that ring,
Thou callest the people to worship now,
But this my own psalm I prefer to sing.
The weary week-days back to Monday
Are slaves to the rich man, the money-lord.
The only day that steals from his hoard
A paltry copper is Sunday.
His life is a heaven. Ours instead
Is a hell. We are ragged and eat hard bread.
At home our loved ones are sighing,
While starved we row for a surfeited race
Their barge of trade with sweat in our face
And weep at the oars we are plying."
Ding! Dong!
"May vengeance dire consume them!
When shall I ring in redress of wrong,
And God's own judgment doom them?
"From our starving flesh they cut off a pound
To make the money-lord fat and round.
To make the money-lord fat and round.
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