And he bartered his manhood’s prime
As he toiled and moiled, in the stores of wealth—
Where they banter the whole crib-time;
And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokes
To the tune that the “banjos” play;
For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokes
While they work for a miner’s pay!
[93]
]And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s self
To provide for as best it can;
For there comes no dream of a workless shelf