  Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; Oh Worms! who dare not turn again. The farmer leads the best of lives, His food pours in: abundant feast; Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; And you—and you—are but a beast! Each day you tend the growing corn, 'The ox shall not be muzzled'—True! All animals must have their turn; But less than any beast are you! The horse is stabled, dry and warm, His food is measured, manger-full; The sheep is valued on the farm, A price is found for meat and wool. You—you are but a working man! Your wages run from day to day, Your wife and brood live as they can; They count for no return of pay. Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, Your shoulders droop toward the soil; When, faltering, you leave the race, The workhouse well repays your toil. Oh piteous soul! with none to care, At length they recognize your worth; And England yields, herself, your share: A pauper grave in Mother Earth. |
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