TO A BRICKLAYER IN REPOSE.
Rest from your work, awhile, my son,
And let a mug of beer replace
The moisture—sign of duty done—
That oozes from your honest face;
Your tale of bricks,
A long hour’s task, already totals 6.
Our goose that lays the bars of gold
Must not incur too big a strain;
Nor need you, as I think, be told
To keep a check on hand and brain,
Lest you exceed
Your Union’s limit in respect of speed.
For homes a homeless people cries,
But you’ve a principle at stake;
Though fellow-workers, lodged in styes,
Appeal to you for Labour’s sake
To fill their lack,
Shall true bricklayers waive their Right to Slack?
Never! You’ll lay what bricks you choose,
And let the others waste their breath,
These myriads, ranged in weary queues,
Who desperately quote Macbeth:—
“Lay on, Macduff,
And damned be he that first cries ‘Hold, enough’!”
Your high profession stands apart;
By years of toil you’ve learned the trick
(Like Pheidias with his plastic art)
Of slapping mortar on a brick;
Touched too the summit
Of science with your lore of line and plummet.
And none may join your sacred Guild,
Save only graduates (so to speak),
Experts with hod and trowel, skilled
In the finesse of pure technique:
And that is why
No rude untutored soldier need apply.
O.S.