May see in me the real Unemployed!
Oh, yes! this hand is used to work,
The hardness has not left its palm.
I’m no black-coated spouting shirk,
Like him upon the tub there. Calm?
By Heaven, I choke!
Could I but fell the gang at one sharp stroke,
Ranters who rail, and roughs who watch for spoil,
’Twere one good blow in the true cause of Toil.
How shall I make my poor Voice heard