Our Fathers are Praying for Pauper-Pay

Smitten stones will talk with fiery tongues,
And the worm, when trodden, will turn;
But, Cowards, ye cringe to the cruellest wrongs,
And answer with never a spurn.
Then torture, O Tyrants, the spiritless drove,
Old England's Helots will bear:
There's no hell in their hatred, no God in their love,
No shame in their dearth's despair.
For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

The Tearless are drunk with our tears: have they
driven
The God of the poor man mad!
For we weary of waiting the help of Heaven,
And the battle goes still with the bad.
O but death for death, and life for life,
It were better to take and give,
With hand to throat, and knife to knife,
Than die out as thousands live!
For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

Fearless and few were the Heroes of old,
Who played the peerless part:
We are fifty-fold, but the gangrene Gold
Hath eaten out Hampden's heart.
With their faces to danger, like freemen they fought,
With their daring, all heart and hand:
And the thunder-deed follow'd the lightning-thought,
When they stood for their own good land.
Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

When the heart of one-half the world doth beat
Akin to the brave and the true,
And the tramp of Democracy's earthquake feet
Goes thrilling the wide world through, —
We should not be living in darkness and dust,
And dying like slaves in the night;
But, big with the might of the inward " must"
We should battle for Freedom and Right!
For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.