Not a chip from the workman’s crust;
There’s never a turn for the London Jew,
Nor a “weight” for the London “trust”;
There’s never a sigh for the wretched gnomes
Below in the seething stope,
And the walls resound,
As the cams go round,
With the clamour of new-born Hope!
[111]
]There’s a battler seeing the parcel through;
And he stands in the lamplight dim,