Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest.
It is not that Nature unkindly denies
To his lordship a brain of the average size;
Nor because he resembles the people he rules,
Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools.
’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag,
He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag,
And give to the Franchise the knock on the head
That he tried on the measure for giving him bread.
Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go—