There’s another and brighter song to sing
That is caught on the writer’s quill,
Though ’tis told all day with a rhythmic swing
By the stamps of the ten-head mill:
They repeat no burden of cankered greed,
And they echo no anguished moan,
When they rattle the roofs
With their iron hoofs,
As they pound on your two-ounce stone!
There’s never a beat for the filching crew,