God save the workman's right From Mammon's sordid might, And Birth's pretence. Confound the tricky rule, Of foreign courtly tool, Give us from Freedom's School The men of sense. Forced as a boon to ask For labour's daily task From purse-proud knaves; Not ours the land we till, Not ours the stores we fill Living and dying still Beggars and slaves. We toil at loam and spade, And still the more we made, The less we gain; For you the profits keep, And you the surplus heap, Till all our age can reap, Is want and pain. Our poverty's your wealth, Our sickness is your health, Our death your life; Your shops in poison deal, Banks forge, and statesmen steal, And rots the commonweal, Corruption-rife. With bloodstain'd despots' shame, You link our country's name, And aid their crime; God! hear thy people pray, If there's no other way, Give us one Glorious day Of Cromwell's time. But if the Lord of Life Will turn you hearts from strife, To clasp our hand, And bid oppression cease; The brotherhood and peace, In Freedom's safe increase, Shall bless our land. |
Ernest Jones, Chartist
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