“Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first.
The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!
The hatred of the robber rich accursed
Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.
“Beyond the present’s faith, the future’s hope
Points to the dawning hour when all shall be
But one. The man condemned shall fit the rope
Around the hangman’s neck, and both be free!
“The sun then rises on a happier land
Where Wealth and Labour sound but as one word.
We drill, we train, we arm our leaguered band.
What is there more to tell you have not heard?”
This is a leader’s tent. They gather here,
Resolute, stern, menacing. On the ground
They sit or stand, enter or disappear,
Dark faces and deep voices all around.
“AXIOM.”
Let him who toils, enjoy
Fruit of his toiling.
Let him whom sweats annoy,
No more be spoiling.
For we would have it be
That, weak or stronger,
Not he who works, but he
Who works not, hunger!
DRILL.
When day’s hard task’s done,
Eve’s scant meal partaken,
Out we steal each one,
Weariless, unshaken.
In small reeking squares,
Garbaged plots, we gather,
Little knots and pairs,
Brother, sister, father.