THE TWO VOICES.
“That this representative body of Working-men, representing the bonâ fide Unemployed Workmen of the East and South-East of London, beg to place on record their entire want of sympathy, and their utter condemnation of the recent conduct which has been made in the name of the Unemployed.”—Resolution passed at a Meeting of Representative Workmen, held in Whitechapel, for the purpose “of considering the present position of the Unemployed Workmen, and the grave events of last week.”
The Unemployed? Well, here I stand,
Have stood for many weary weeks,
With sinking heart and idle hand,
Hunger’s white ensign on my cheeks.
I raise no howl
Like yon plump ruffian with the bull-dog jowl;
But the smug swells, with pleasure’s honey cloyed,
May see in me the real Unemployed!
Oh, yes! this hand is used to work,
The hardness has not left its palm.
I’m no black-coated spouting shirk,
Like him upon the tub there. Calm?
By Heaven, I choke!
Could I but fell the gang at one sharp stroke,
Ranters who rail, and roughs who watch for spoil,
’Twere one good blow in the true cause of Toil.
How shall I make my poor Voice heard
’Midst this brute shindy, brainless, mad?
The slime-deeps of the town are stirred,
All that’s bloodthirsty, blatant, bad,
Comes, surging up;
And I—ah! I hang back and drain the cup
Of bitter want in silence, blent with shame
At this base smirching of a Man’s good name.
And then the cynic cacklers crow
In their snug cushions; crow and cry:
“Oh, the whole thing’s a farce, you know.
The old sham play of Poverty,
Pushed just once more
Upon the public boards. An awful bore!”
So (whilst we starve) the well-fed idlers scoff
At the spoilt tragedy, and cry, “Off! Off!”
Ah! the sleek fops should take a turn
At the long, weary foot-sore tramp,
In search of work, till sick hearts burn,
Till the cold flags or footways damp,
Of London seem
The endless mazes of some devilish dream,
And tempting visions haunt the fevered head,
Of the sharp knife-edge or the river’s bed.
Wrong? Oh, of course! Our duty lies,
In dull endurance to the end.
The faces pale, the pleading eyes,
Of wife and children, looks that rend
A fellow’s heart,
And make hot curses from his cold lips start,
These should not madden men unto the pitch,
Of violent despair. So preach the rich!
And yonder yelling fools contrive
To lend some truth to Mammon’s text.
The laziest larrikin alive,
With babbling tongue and braid perplext,
Can help do that;
Whilst I?—a broken head or beaten hat
Will not so help me in my present state
That I should greatly care to “demonstrate.”
Only if such a Voice as mine
Could penetrate the public ear,
Deafened with all this windy shine,
And muddled ’twixt contempt and fear;
I rather think
I would tell some truths might make the scoffers shrink.
But I compete with yonder wolf-eyed brute?
No; I can easier suffer and stand mute.
If that’s a strong, well-ordered state,
Where tens of thousands like myself,
With willing hands, must starve and wait,
Whilst piles of swiftly growing pelf,
Sweated from toil,
Swell for the lords of capital and soil,
Then—you may rear a city on foul slime,
And build Society on want and crime.
My Voice! Men will not listen—yet;
And when they open ears at last,
Bludgeon won’t cure, nor bayonet.
Meanwhile yon brayer at full blast
Belies my cause,
’Midst foolish jeers and foolisher applause;
And preachers prose, and statesmen tinker on,
And we—we starve in gold-choked Babylon!
“My Nephew, who is very fond of pictures,” said Mrs. Ram, “has just purchased the finest Pot o’ Jelly I have ever seen.” Can it be possible that the dear old lady meant Botticelli?
