HOW DIFFERENT!
POOR weaver, with the hopeless brow,
And bare woe-whiten'd head;
Thou art a pauper, all allow,
All see thou begg'st thy bread;
And yet thou dost not plunder slaves,
Then tell them they are free;
Nor hast thou join'd with tax-fed knaves,
To corn-bill mine and me.
What borough dost thou represent?
Whom bid'st thou toil and pay?
Why sit'st thou not in pauperment,
If baser beggars may?
Where are thy hounds, thy palaced w---e,
To feed on mine and me?
Thy reverend pimp, thy coach and four,
Thy thieves in livery?
No house hast thou, no food, no fire;
None bow to thee, alas
A beggar! yet nor lord, nor squire?
Say how comes this to pass?
While yon proud pauper, dead to shame,
Is fed by mine and me?
And yet behind the rascal's name
The scoundrel writes M.P.!
THE FOUR DEARS
DEAR Sugar, dear Tea, and dear Corn
Conspired with dear Representation,
To laugh worth and honour to scorn,
And beggar the whole British nation.
Let us bribe the dear sharks, said dear Tea;
Bribe, bribe, said dear Representation;
Then buy with their own the dear humbugg'd and be
The bulwarks of Tory dictation.
Dear Sugar and Tea, said dear Corn,
Be true to dear Representation;
And then the dear crown will be worn,
But to dignify dearest taxation.
Dear Sugar, dear Corn, and dear Tea,
Stick to me, said dear Representation;
Let us still pull together, and we
Shall still rob the dear British nation.
DRONE v. WORKER
How God speeds the tax-bribed plough,
Fen and moor declare, man;
Where once fed the poor man's cow,
ACRES drives his share, man.
But he did not steal the fen,
Did not steal the moor, man;
If he feeds on starving men,
Still he loves the poor, man.
Hush! he bullies state and throne,
Quids them in his jaw, man;
Thine and mine he calls his own;
Acres' lie is law, man.
Acres eats his tax on bread,
Acres loves the plough, man;
Acres' dogs are better fed,
Beggar's slave! than thou, man.
Acres' feeder pays his debts,
Waxes thin and pale, man,
Harder works, and poorer gets,
Pays his debts in jail, man.
Acres in a palace lives,
While his feeder pines, man;
Palaced beggar ne'er forgives
Dog on whom he dines, man.
Acres' feeder, beggar'd, begs,
Treadmill'd rogue is he, man;
Scamp! he deals in pheasants' eggs,--
Hangs on gallows tree, man!
Who would be an useful man?
Who sell cloth, or hats, man?
Who make boiler, or mend pan?
Who keep Acres' brats, man?
Better ride, and represent--
Better borough tools, man;
Better sit in pauperment--
Better corn-law fools, man.
Why not right the plunder'd poor?
Why not use our own, man?
Plough the seas, and not the moor?
Why not pick a bone, man?
Lo, the merchant builds huge mills,--
Bread-tax'd thinks, and sighs, man!
Thousand mouths and bellies fills,--
Bread-tax'd breaks, and dies, man!
Thousand mouths and bellies, then,
Bread-tax'd, writhe and swear, man:
England once bred honest men,
Bread-tax'd, Burke and Hare, man!
Hark ye! millions soon may pine,
Starving millions curse, man,
Desperate millions long to dine
A-la-Burke, and worse, man!
What will then remain to eat?
Who be eaten then, man?
"Few may part, though many meet,"
At Famine's Feast, ye ken, man.
Child, is thy Father Dead?
Tune: 'Robin Adair'CHILD, is thy father dead?
Father is gone!
Why did they tax his bread?
God's will be done!
Mother has sold her bed;
Better to die than wed!
Where shall she lay her head?
Home we have none!
Father clamm'd thrice a week,
God's will be done!
Long for work he did seek,
Work he found none.
Tears on his hollow cheek
Told what no tongue could speak:
Why did his master break?
God's will be done!
Doctor said it was best,
Food we had none;
Father, with panting breast,
Groan'd to be gone:
Now he is with the blest--
Mother says death is best!
We have no place of rest--
Yes, ye have one!