Swing Redivivus; A letter (dated October 4, 1832) from a poor man, named Abraham Adair, of Overton. Johnny Swing is not yet dead, Soon again he’ll raise his head ; How will the tyrants stare, When they see their ricks flare, And all their ill-got property with ruin overspread. Swing but waits for the long dark nights, Then he’ll plead for poor men’s rights ; To the barns he will repair, In the cool midnight air, And remind our cruel landlords of their little oversights. Swing’s Reform alone is sure, His “ wild justice” represents the poor ; Rich men now shall share The poor man’s toil and care, Or, Swing will play some tragedies without an overture. Honest Parson Swing shall preach A sermon, which home truths shall teach ; Falsehood’s veil he’ll tear, And her gaunt front lay bare ; The Church of Blood shall try no more the poor to overreach. Tyrants set their slaves to watch, But thee, O Swing, they ne’er will catch, To arrest thee whoever dare Mast for the worst prepare ; Thou always for thine enemies shalt prove an overmatch. Let our foes with caution creep, Trying to catch Jack Swing asleep ; The lion, in his lair, Shall shake his shaggy hair, And all their nets, and traps, and spikes, with triumph overleap. Swing’s renown each landlord hears ; Swing’s advance each despot fears ; With more than royal glare Swing marches every where, And laughs at bailiffs, beadles, watchmen, guards, and overseers Landlords soon will justice learn, When they see their plunder burn ; Nor Alderman, nor Mayor, Shall repose in his arm-chair, When Swing their worships’ hopes of wealth shall gently overturn. Swing knows how the intellect to whet, Of any poor man by hunger met ; Idlers eat pheasant and hare, Cold potatoes are our fare ; But every monopoly Jack Swing will overset. Rich men make (what they call) “ Law,” But, in this, Swing finds a flaw ; What “ Equal Rights” are there ? How can the laws be fair, Which, without poor men’s rights, would poor men overawe ? Greedy landlords us would goad To insurrection’s open road ; And, sure, ’tis patience rare That we so long forbear, When they, with insults, more and more, us poor men overload. Should from vengeance Swing refrain, We should in misery e’er remain. Swing shall to all declare, The yoke no more we’ll bear ; Tyrants will find ’twas dangerous the bow to overstrain. Our sickles reap, our scythes mow, Our axes lay the forest low. No food can rich men spare ! The poor shall not despair : Arise, Oh Swing, and speedily our tyrants overthrow. [Address of the Letter.] Magistrates ! (would any of them con This paper over, I’ve scribbled on ?) List to the poor man’s prayer :— I am Abraham Adair, A labourer, what lives (or starves) not far from Overton.