Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek,
Hear my words before I go:
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By my weary hours confined
To work and dirt and heat combined;
By my ever-lengthening day,
By my ever-shortening pay:
By these grievances you know—
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By the joints I ne’er might taste,