THE WORKING MAN

Working Man! whose psychic beauty

( Unattainable by me )

Still it is my pleasing duty

Painted by your friends to see,—

You, whose virtues ne’ er can bore us,

Daily through their list we scan,

Let me swell th’ admiring chorus,

Let me hymn the Working Man!

You whose Leaders, highly moral,

Always shocked by war’ s alarms,

Could not in their country’ s quarrel

Contemplate the use of arms,

Yet, should strikes provide occasion,

Then by higher promptings led

Do with more than moral suasion

Break the erring Blackleg’ s head:—

You, whose intellectual state is

Such that you are aiming at

Getting all your culture gratis

( Not that you’ re alone in that ),—

Always with the strict injunction

That whate’ er be false or true

Every teacher’ s simple function

Is to teach what pleases you:—

Not to gain by learned labour

Any sordid quid pro quo:

Not to rise above your neighbour

( Comrades ne’ er are treated so ):

Not to change your lowly station,

Not for rank and not for pelf,

Academic education

Only, only for itself,—

Yet in whose commercial dealings

Vainly we attempt to find

Those disinterested feelings

Which adorn the Student’ s mind,—

Seeing that, O my high-souled brothers!

There your dream of happiness

Is ( like mine, and several others’)

Earning more for working less!

’ Tis not that I blame your getting

Anything you think you can:

’ Tisn’ t that which I’ m regretting,

Noble British Working Man!

No — although the facts I mention

Sometimes wake a mild surprise —

Still — the truth’ s beyond contention —

You are good, and great, and wise:

Swell my taxes: stint my fuel:

Last, to close the painful scene,

Send me, rather just than cruel,

Send me to the guillotine:

Ere the knife bisects my spinal

Cord, and ends my vital span,

This shall be my utterance final,

Bless the British Working Man!