I was trained in a different school, and my motto's good work for good wage;
But the sweaters and spouters between 'em spoil that in this book-learned age.
Mister School Teacher just take my tip, I can tell you you're on the wrong lay;
You get paid, so I've heard, by results; the results, Sir, are bad, and don't pay.
Boys learning to read, and then spending their pence upon "Highwaymen" trash;
Lads knowing the pons asinorum, who can't make a door or a sash;
Louts lolloping round on the loose, spouting fragments of Socialist stuff;
Mobs of "workmen," played shuttlecock with by the ranter, the "red," and the rough;
True hands by the thousand left idle, poor mouths by the myriad unfilled,
Because Wealth's so hard upon Labour, and Labour's so often unskilled;