An' Jim is somewhere in the south,
An' Jim ain't really bad,
A-runnin' round an' raisin' Cain,
An' stabbin' some kid's dad.
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But that's w'at men are made for—eh?
W'at else is there for me
But workin' on till Jim comes home,
Sick of his bloody spree.
A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS
(A HYMN WITH RESPONSES)
"Praise God from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Every morning mercies new
Fall as fresh as morning dew."
Yet we are choked with sin
With bestial lusts and guile;
God (so it runs) made this world clean
And Man has made it vile.
Aye, here Man lives on man,
And breaks him day by day—
But in the trampled jungle
The tiger claws his prey.
God's curse is on the thief;
The murderer fares ill—
Who gave the beasts their taste for blood
Who taught them how to kill?