Fondly I've lauded your wealth-winning hands,
Planting Commerce and Fame throughout measureless lands;
And my patriot-love, and my patriot-song,
To the children of Labour will ever belong.
Women and men of this brave old soil!
I weep that starvation should guerdon your toil;
But I glory to see ye—proudly mute—
Showing souls like the hero, not fangs like the brute.
Oh! keep courage within; be the Britons ye are;
HE, who driveth the storm hath His hand on the star!
England to England's sons shall be true,
And "God and the People" will carry ye through!
THE SMOKELESS CHIMNEY
BY A LANCASHIRE LADY [{1}] (E.J.B.)
STRANGER! who to buy art willing,
Seek not here for talent rare;
Mine's no song of love or beauty,
But a tale of want and care.
Traveller on the Northern Railway!
Look and learn, as on you speed;
See the hundred smokeless chimneys,
Learn their tale of cheerless need.
Ah! perchance the landscape fairer
Charms your taste, your artist-eye;
Little do you guess how dearly
Costs that now unclouded sky.
"How much prettier is this county!"
Says the careless passer-by;
"Clouds of smoke we see no longer,
What's the reason?—Tell me why.
"Better far it were, most surely,
Never more such clouds to see,
Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty,
With their foul obscurity."
Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney
Floats the golden breath of life;
Stop that current at your pleasure!
Stop! and starve the child—the wife.
Ah! to them each smokeless chimney
Is a signal of despair;
They see hunger, sickness, ruin,
Written in that pure, bright air.
"Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly
Said last week the mill would stop;
Mark yon chimney, nought is going,
There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!'