“LIBERTY!”
“Liberty!” Is that the cry, then?
We have heard it oft of yore.
Once it had, we think, a meaning;
Let us hear it now no more.
We have read what history tells us
Of its heroes, martyrs too.
Doubtless they were very splendid,
But they’re not for me and you.
There were Greeks who fought and perished,
Won from Persians deathless graves.
Had we lived then, we’re aware that
We’d have been those same Greeks’ slaves!
Then a Roman came who loved us;
Cæsar gave men tongues and swords.
Crying “Liberty,” they fought him,
Cato and his cut-throat lords.
When he’d give a broader franchise,
Lift the mangled nations bowed,
Crying “Liberty!” they killed him,
Brutus and his pandar crowd.
We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!
“Liberty!” The stale cry echoes
Past snug homesteads, tinsel thrones,
Over smoking fields and hovels,
Murdered peasants’ bleaching bones.
That’s the cry that mocked us madly,
Toiling in our living graves,
When hell-mines sent up the chorus:
“Britons never shall be slaves!”
“Liberty!” We care not for it!
What we care for’s food, clothes, homes,
For our dear ones toiling, waiting
For the time that never comes!
IN THE EDGWARE ROAD.
(To LORD L----.)
Will you not buy? She asks you, my lord, you
Who know the points desirable in such.
She does not say that she is perfect. True,
She’s not too pleasant to the sight or touch.
But then—neither are you!
Her cheeks are rather fallen in; a mist
Glazes her eyes, for all their hungry glare.
Her lips do not breathe balmy when they’re kissed.
And yet she’s not more loathsome than, I swear,
Your grandmother at whist.
My lord, she will admit, and need not frame
Excuses for herself, that she’s not chaste.
First a young lover had her; then she came
From one man’s to another’s arms, with haste.
Your mother did the same.
Moreover, since she’s married, once or twice
She’s sold herself for certain things at night,
To sell one’s body for the highest price
Of social ease and power, all girls think right.
Your sister did it thrice.
What, you’ll not buy? You’ll curse at her instead?—
Her children are alone, at home, quite near.
These winter streets, so gay at nights, ’tis said,
Have ’ticed the wanton out. She could not hear
Her children cry for bread!