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.