Oh Fools

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.