Tom Dunstan: or, the Politician
(“How Long, O Lord, How Long?”)
By Robert Buchanan
Cross-legg’d on the board we sat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching and sweating, while fat
Old Moses, with eyes like a cat,
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny’s death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitch’d and stitch’d away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Poor worn-out slops were we,
With hearts as heavy as lead;
But “Patience! 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.
And at last the cheery sound
Of his voice among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,
That he mightn’t starve, at least.
His pain was awful to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
“She’s coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!” cried he;
“Freedom’s ahead!”
Ay, now Tom Dunstan’s cold,
All life seems duller;
There’s a blight on young and old,
And our talk has lost the bold
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, while in the dark sit we,
Tom seems to call from the dead—
“She’s coming! she’s coming!” says he;
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”