Tell us not of bygone days!
Tell us not of forward times!
What’s the future—what’s the past—
Save to fashion rhymes?
Show us that the corn doth thrive!
Show us there’s no wintry weather!
Show us we may laugh and live—
(Those who love—together.)
Senses have we for sweet blossoms—
Eyes, which could admire the sun—
Passions blazing in our bosoms—
Hearts, that may be won!
But Labour doth for ever press us,
And Famine grins upon our board;
And none will help us, none will bless us,
With one gentle word!
None, none! our birthright or our fate,
Is hunger and inclement air—
Perpetual toil—the rich man’s hate—
Want, scorn—the pauper’s fare:
We fain would gaze upon the sky,
Lie pensive by the running springs;
But if we stay to gaze or sigh,
We starve—though the cuckoo sings!
The moon casts cold on us below;
The sun is not our own;
The very winds which fragrance blow,
But blanch us to the bone;
The rose for us ne’er shows its bloom,
The violet its blue eye;
From cradle murmuring to the tomb,
We feel no beauty, no perfume,
But only toil—and die!
PAUPER.