The Poor of the City.
What evil hath the poor man done,
That he must toil so hard,
And never see the summer sun
Smile on the glad green sward ?
For him in doleful city pent,
No charms hath Nature’s merriment ;
A stranger he must ever be
Unto the wild bee’s minstrelsy.
The morning sun, whose ray should bring
Life, gladness, to the heart,
To him is sign of sorrowing ;
No joy may it impart.
It tells him of his daily doom,
To labour at the weary loom ;
Perchance that labour may provide
The tinsel of the rich man’s pride.
The poor man’s child !—his cheek is wan,
“ The track of grief” is there ;
His youthful mirth is under ban ;
The curse of want and care !
He may not watch with wondering eye
The half-seen lark in morning sky ;
The bonnie broom and heath-flower wild
Bloom not to glad the city child.
He may not wander joyously,
Where sports the flowery burn ;
No ! to some noisome factory
His lingering footsteps turn ;
And there all day—half-fed, half-clad—
Toils the uncared-for factory lad ;
Dole, want, and woe his early doom,
Which end but in a welcome tomb !
Is it for this that science flings
Her banner o’er the land ?
Spirit of Watt ! are these the things
Thy kindling genius plann’d ?
Ye statesmen ! wake from fever’d dreams
Of mad ambition’s heartless schemes ;
His proper meed the needy give,
“ Wrong not the poor, by whom ye live !”